


Hand to Hand

by jehans



Series: Hand to Hand Universe [1]
Category: Captain America (Movies), Captain America - All Media Types, Marvel Cinematic Universe, The Avengers (Marvel Movies)
Genre: Anxiety, Avengers: Endgame (Movie) Compliant, Bisexual Steve Rogers, Brooklyn, Bucky Barnes & Sam Wilson Friendship, Bucky Barnes as Captain America, Captain America Sam Wilson, Catholic Steve Rogers, Domestic Bucky Barnes/Steve Rogers, Falcon and Winter Soldier, Fix-It, Gen, Jewish Bucky Barnes, M/M, Mental Health Issues, New York City, Own Voices, Panic Attacks, Post-Avengers: Endgame (Movie), Post-Canon Fix-It, Post-Endgame, Post-Traumatic Stress Disorder - PTSD, Retired Steve Rogers, Steve Rogers Comes Back, The Falcon and Winter Soldier Buddy Cop Show We Deserve, Winter Soldier Bucky Barnes
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2019-06-09
Updated: 2019-09-06
Packaged: 2020-04-23 08:53:05
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 2
Words: 34,902
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/19147687
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/jehans/pseuds/jehans
Summary: One year ago, the world returned to some semblance of normal when the Avengers reunited to bring back those lost after Thanos’ snap. But bringing people back five years later doesn’t erase the trauma of loss, and it doesn’t stop the bad guys forever.Sam Wilson was given his shield a year ago, just before Steve Rogers publicly retired, but the fear of not living up to the title has kept him from embracing the mantle of Captain America thus far. Instead, he and Bucky Barnes have been making a living working freelance reconnaissance jobs, even though both know they were meant for more. When a young woman comes to them for help, bringing rumors of Hydra’s resurgence, Bucky can’t turn her away, so he makes Sam an offer.But dealing with post-traumatic stress is hard enough on them both, let alone doing it while taking down a Nazi terrorist organization at the same time.Guess they’ll just have to partner up.[[Or: Steve, Bucky, and Sam all live together and fight crime. Except Steve, who is forced to REST, GODDAMNIT. Post-Endgame, canon-compliant fix it. It all happened, but it’s not the whole story. Each chapter is an “episode” in the series.]]





	1. 1.01: but the fighter still remains

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Steve makes dinner, Sam makes a choice, and Bucky is reminded of some shit he’d rather not face again.

Sam Wilson, Avenger, the illustrious Falcon, man-who-has-helped-save-the-world-multiple-times, the New Captain America, taps his fingers impatiently on the steering wheel of the beat-up old Jeep Wrangler he’s been stuck in all afternoon and lets out a huff.

“Stop doing that,” Bucky Barnes snaps from the passenger seat without taking the binoculars from his eyes.

Sam rolls his eyes in the most dramatic way possible — which, of course, is a waste on Bucky since he hasn’t stopped looking through those goddamn binoculars for the last _hour_ — and mumbles something that sounds obscene and also insulting.

 _That_ , apparently, is what it takes to make Bucky lower the binoculars at last, and turn slowly to Sam. “Wanna say that again?” he asks in that low voice that’s supposed to be scary, and probably would be if Sam weren’t so annoyed with him. He loves Bucky in a you-drive-me-crazy-but-I-begrudgingly-care-a-lot-about-you sort of way, but they have been stuck in this car a long time, and Bucky is on Sam’s last nerve.

“I thought you said you had intel that this guy was here?” Sam demands. “We’ve been here nearly three hours and there’s no sign of him. Can we go home now?”

“No.” Bucky raises the binoculars again and goes back to staring out the front windshield.

“Why not?” Sam presses. “Why can’t we go home? Trouble in paradise?”

Lowering his hands a little, Bucky sighs and rolls his eyes. “No,” he finally admits, “Steve finally discovered _Hamilton_ , and now I can’t get him to stop singing ‘Dear Theodosia’ at me, except he keeps changing the words to ‘Dear James Buchanan’.”

Sam busts out laughing, causing Bucky to turn and completely Winter-Soldier-glare at him. “Well,” he chokes out between bursts of laughter, “given your history, that kind of changes the meaning to, ‘You knock me out, I fall apart.’”

“Fuck off,” Bucky says as another round of giggles overtakes Sam, but as he looks back into the binoculars, his cheeks are definitely a little pinker than usual.

Steve has been spending most of his time since retiring a year ago catching up on modern pop culture. He’s even taken to allowing Peter and Shuri — who freaked out and started screaming delightedly the first time Steve had casually slid into conversation that his shield was “the size of a dinner plate,” leaving him vulnerable to being “shot in ze legs” — to come over weekly and use the giant tv and stereo sound system Tony had left Steve to educate him on all the funniest vine compilations, memes, and Jenna Marbles videos. It’s gotten to the point where it’s genuinely difficult to understand Steve sometimes, but it makes him happy, which is really all that matters.

“Okay,” Sam says decidedly, digging the car keys out of the center console, “that’s not a good enough reason to keep sitting in this goddamn car. It’s getting dark, and I’m hungry.”

“If you touch that fucking ignition, I will snap your head off your shoulders,” Bucky says calmly, again refusing to take down his obvious crutch, those _infernal binoculars_.

Sam snorts. “I’d pay money to see you try that, old man.”

“Go to hell, bird.”

“We’re going home, Bucky.”

“We are not, he’s here.”

“Bucky.”

“He’s here!”

“ _Bucky._ ”

“No, I mean he’s _there_ ,” Bucky hisses, pointing. “Take the fucking picture, asshole!”

Sam scrambles to pick up the camera on his lap, and ignores Bucky’s string of profanity when the flash accidentally goes off as he snaps as many pictures as he can before their target drives off in the cab he had waiting for him.

 

As usual, Sam and Bucky are bickering while Bucky unlocks the door to the Brooklyn brownstone they call home these days. The smell of cooking food greets them as the door opens, and Steve’s cheery “Hello!” from the kitchen cuts off whatever insult Sam was about to hit Bucky with.

Bucky dumps his leather jacket on the sofa and makes a beeline for the kitchen, where Steve is whisking something in a saucepan on the stove. It smells amazing, but that’s not what Bucky’s focused on.

“Hey, punk,” he greets Steve, the first genuine smile he’s had today pulling at the corners of his lips. “Where did you get that apron?”

Steve makes a cute scrunchy face at him before greeting him back with a chaste kiss on the lips, then steps back and holds out the corner of the frilly apron with one hand. “Thor gave it to me,” he answers. “Do you like it?”

“It’s pretty,” Sam answers as Bucky nods his approval, hopping up to sit on the counter opposite the stove and plucking a roll out of the basket Steve’s put them in. He rips a bite off and adds through his mouthful, “I like the flowers.”

“Thanks,” Steve replies, turning back to the stove to move the saucepan off the heat and switch off the burner. “You guys are just in time, I was about to take the chicken out of the oven.”

“I got it,” Sam offers, immediately hopping down off the counter again and heading for the oven mitts. “Go sit, you’ve done enough.”

Steve stands still in protest as Sam manages to stealth untie his apron and lift it over his head, swapping it to himself instead, all in one fluid motion and about two seconds flat. “But the sauce!” he cries, like he’s a cartoon character.

“I know how to do the sauce, you weirdo, get away.” Sam retorts, kicking at him with one foot, away from the stove.

“But —”

“Bucky, come getcha man!”

Bucky frowns and looks up at Sam from his phone, where he was blatantly checking Twitter. “I’m right here.”

Sam glowers at him with his Scary Eyes, which actually are pretty scary. “Come. Get. Ya man,” he insists.

Bucky rolls his eyes, but he’s been unsettled enough to do as Sam says. “Jesus. All right, come on, Rogers.” He takes a hold of Steve’s hand and drags him out of the kitchen into the dining room, switching on the lights as he leads them both to the table.

Steve lingers for a moment before taking his seat so he can draw Bucky in by their joined hands and bless him with a sweeter, deeper kiss than the one in the kitchen. When their lips part, he nuzzles Bucky’s nose with his own and whispers, “Hey, Buck,” which is the exact sequence of events that causes Bucky to absolutely _melt_.

“Fuck you,” Bucky mutters back, but he can’t help his smile as he catches Steve around the waist and pulls him sharply back in to kiss him again.

Steve laughs into his mouth, and brushes Bucky’s cheekbones with his thumbs before pulling away again. He pulls out the chair at the head of the table, which is just naturally where he sits most of the time, while Bucky takes his place catty-corner from him on his left.

“How’d relaxing go today?” Bucky asks, giving Steve a little smirk when Steve groans and lets his head fall back in exasperation.

Since retiring, Steve has had something of a problem with not actually doing anything. He keeps doing increasingly complicated chores around the house and trying to “help” Sam and Bucky’s freelance reconnaissance jobs by doing “research” that has, more than once, included Steve actually going out and doing their goddamn job for them. Bucky quickly put his foot down on that, insisting that that kind of behavior was _not_ what a retired person should be doing, but that had the unfortunate consequence of Steve’s chores being kicked up a few notches.

When Sam had come home from the gym one day to find all of his earthly possessions in categorized stacks in the hall with Steve in his room, organizing his closet, he had unequivocally said _enough_. That was last week. Since then, Steve has been instructed in no uncertain terms to _chill the fuck out and relax, goddamnit_ , which has been. . .a struggle.

Steve is mightily rolling his eyes, and drops his voice down to a murmur so Sam won’t hear him (and, most likely, yell at him). “It’s hell,” he responds to Bucky’s question. “It’s not relaxing to do _absolutely nothing_ , it’s incredibly stressful. What does he want me to do, just _sit here all day?!_ ”

“You could watch television,” Bucky suggests helpfully, shit-eating grin plastered across his face. “Catch up on some of that. You could work out. You could take a walk. You could go shopping. You could learn a new language. You could —”

“You know goddamn well I do _all_ of that, thankyouverymuch,” Steve interrupts belligerently.

Bucky’s smile softens and he leans forward to reach for Steve’s hand and give it a squeeze. “You know we’re just looking out for you,” he says, and Steve rolls his eyes again, but nods. “You need some rest, Rogers. And you’re too fucking altruistic for your own good, you always manage to get yourself in some sort of danger when left alone, you always have. Honestly, it’s been exhausting having to constantly worry about you getting your own ass kicked for the past hundred years.”

Steve grins at that, leaning forward to match Bucky over the table, lacing their fingers together.

“Yeah,” he says, “but we’re married, Buck. You willingly signed up for this.”

“Fuck,” Bucky swears teasingly. “I did, didn’t I?”

“Till death do us part,” Steve nods.

Bucky scrunches up his face in mock thoughtfulness. “Technically,” he begins, “we’ve already reached that goal a few times between us.”

Steve barks out a laugh and retorts, “Well, _technically_ , neither of us actually said the word ‘death’ in our vows. I believe there was something about ‘the end of the line,’ wasn’t there?”

“Goddammit!” Bucky cries, raising his metal fist to the sky and shaking it dramatically. “I’ve been caught in your trap, Steve Rogers. Forever bound by a technicality!”

Steve laughs again. “Fuck you, Barnes,” he mutters, leaning across the corner of the table to meet his smiling lips with his husband’s.

Bucky fucking loves this idiot.

This is the moment Sam decides to make his entrance, carrying out the casserole dish with the chicken — _and_ the sauce — in one mitted hand, and the basket of rolls, plus a salad he seems to have just thrown together in the other. He sets them all down on the already-set table and gestures to the dishes with wide-spread arms.

“You may partake.”

“Thanks, Sam,” Steve tells him as he circles around to take his seat on Steve’s right.

“You did most of it,” Sam retorts, pulling the chicken towards himself to scoop some onto his plate, as Bucky serves himself and then Steve from the salad bowl. “I just added the final touches.”

“Well, thank you nonetheless,” Steve insists. He reaches out for the food when he realizes he already has everything on his plate. He turns to Bucky to make an _I-can-take-care-of-myself-you-know_ face at him, but Bucky isn’t meeting his eyes, just looking down at his own plate with a soft expression on his face that melts Steve’s heart.

“So how did the job go?” Steve asks instead. “Did you guys get the picture you needed?”

Sam nods, swallowing the food in his mouth before he says, “It took over three fucking hours, but yeah, we did get it.”

“Not without Wilson fucking it up and sending out a flare to give away our location, though,” Bucky complains, mouth full.

“Fuck you,” Sam shoots back, but Steve can see the hidden fondness between them, “I got the shot!”

Bucky frowns and gestures with his fork as he retorts, “He knew we were there.”

“You don’t know that,” Sam argues.

Buck doesn’t respond except to scoff into his next bite. Bucky eats a lot, and _fast_ , like his instincts are never confident about when he’ll get his next meal. It breaks Steve’s heart knowing that there was surely a lot of time during his life when this was true.

He knows it bothers Sam, too, it’s part of the reason both of them are so dedicated to having dinner ready at around the same time every night. They’ve never discussed it with Bucky because they don’t think he’d like knowing they worry about him like this, but they privately agreed to make feeding him a priority very quickly after they all moved in together. At least he’s started to break the habit of hiding a small horde of dry food in his and Steve’s bedroom. That seems to be a good sign.

Steve seems to be the only one thinking about this right now, though, because Sam is still arguing.

“It doesn’t fucking matter, anyway,” he says, waving off Bucky’s irritation, “I got a clear picture of Dudebro at the location, _shaking hands_ with Whatshisface, okay? It proves Dudebro knows Whatshisface, _and_ is doing business with him, _and_ knew the location so fuck it, they’ll get the conviction they need and Dudebro will be looking at a guarded electric fence for the rest of his life. Job completed.” He sets the fork he’s been using to punctuate his point down as though that settles everything.

Bucky squints at him, finally pausing his food consumption for a moment to ask, “Do you pay _any_ attention to proper nouns when I brief you?”

“I don’t pay any attention to you at all,” Sam says frankly, which results in a very aggressive middle finger from Bucky, so Steve intervenes.

“Okay, that’s enough,” he says, sounding like the dad of the group. He’s about to try to change the subject, when Sam’s phone rings and Sam grunts at it.

“Sorry,” he mutters, taking his napkin off his lap and setting it on the table as he rises. “I’ve been waiting for this call, I’ll be right back.”

Steve nods at him to let him know it’s absolutely fine and Sam ducks out of the room, answering the call by simply stating his last name as he goes. Steve turns to Bucky and is startled to see that he’s stopped eating and is just staring at the food left on his plate.

“You okay, Buck?” he asks, trying not to sound too concerned because that tone of voice can easily make Bucky nervous, too.

But Bucky just nods and asks, “Where’s Talia?” Their cat.

Steve frowns. “She was asleep upstairs last I checked,” he answers. “I’m sure she’ll be down for dinner soon. You want me to go get her?”

“No, that’s okay.” Bucky shakes his head. “Did you feed the goats?”

It’s a slightly confusing line of questioning, but Steve is more than willing to go along with it. “I did,” he answers. “I went out and hung out with them this afternoon. They tried to eat my shirt.”

An excruciatingly soft smile tugs at the corners of Bucky’s mouth as he glances down again, which lifts Steve’s concern a little. He can’t ever help but smile when Bucky does.

“They’re good goats,” Steve remarks gently.

Bucky lets out a quiet laugh. “Yeah,” he agrees. “They are.”

“Are you worried about the animals?” Steve asks him.

“No, I know you take care of them. I just. . .”

Steve’s smile widens. “Did you miss them today?” If that isn’t fucking adorable.

Bucky glances up at him, but he’s still smiling as he says, “Shut up.”

“You wanna go see them?” Steve reaches out and lays a hand on Buck’s right arm. “I can put your plate in the oven, you can finish eating after you come back if you want.”

Bucky shakes his head. “That’s okay,” he says again, and he starts eating again, to Steve’s relief. “I’ll go after dinner.” He grins up at Steve, expression totally clear.

 

-::-::-::-

 

Steve had his first really bad panic attack about a month after they moved into the brownstone. He woke up next to Bucky, the love of his whole life, asleep and tangled in the bedsheets, long hair draped across his face, covering his eyes and drifting into his wide-open mouth which was releasing the most preposterous snore Steve had ever heard anyone make from their own body, and he felt the kind of pure, unfiltered joy that he was only just starting to get used to. It was Sunday, and the sun streamed in through their half-open window and fell dappled across Bucky’s wide-spread limbs. Steve had an idea to make breakfast for Bucky and for Sam, to let them sleep in and wake to the smell of pancakes because they both deserved it and he loved them.

Problem was, Steve discovered when he plodded downstairs and into the kitchen, they were completely out of eggs, and low on milk. No worries, the bodega on the corner was well stocked, and the family who owned it were already becoming familiar with the three of them. Steve could just run down and pick up what he needed. He would be back in fifteen minutes. Less, if he actually did run.

He was fine when he got there. He waved cheerfully at Mateo behind the till, and said hello to Ana, who was trying to reason in Spanish with their son, Manolito — Little Manny, they usually called him — that no, he could not go ride his bike without his shoes on. Meanwhile, Maritza, their daughter, was twirling in front of the cereal. They were such a lovely family, Steve thought as he went to the back of the bodega for the refrigerated items.

It was so instantaneous. One moment, he was laughing to himself at Manny’s cry of “But _Spider-Man_ doesn’t wear shoes!” and then he turned to share a look with Bucky, and was met with empty air.

It was just a slip. He had forgotten, for just _one second_ , that Bucky was at home, still asleep. He was so used to being with him all the time, now. A response to constant separation, now that they were together, they hadn’t been apart for more than a few minutes at a time for weeks. So he forgot.

And he remembered right after, but it was too late. The drop in his stomach when he turned, expecting to see his boyfriend’s face, and saw nothing, was too heavy, the static in his ears too loud. He felt himself breaking apart with panic, and he couldn’t stop the tide.

Bucky woke up to his phone ringing and Steve not in bed next to him. He surged toward his phone and answered too quickly to even look at the caller ID. Even groggy, he recognized Mateo’s voice, but the bodega owner identified himself anyway.

“You need to come over here right now. Steve is fine, but he’s panicking, and he needs you.”

Bucky was out of bed, shoes on but still in his pajamas, and grabbing his keys on the way out in seconds.

When he got to the bodega, Steve was breathing normally, but his face was red and puffy and tear-stained. He had a bottle of water in his hand and a handmade quilt around his shoulders, and Ana was fruitlessly trying to talk her mother out of hand-feeding Steve the soup she’d made that morning while Manny and Maritza clung to either of his sides, comfortingly. Bucky went straight to him, and the way Steve held so tightly to him when he hugged him made his heart break.

After Steve had calmed down enough to let go of Bucky for a moment, and was busy thanking Ana and her mother in Spanish (they would have nothing of it, they said it was their pleasure), Mateo pulled Bucky aside and told him, in his warm, heavy Brooklyn accent, what happened.

Mateo told him how Steve had collapsed suddenly in front of the refrigerators. How he had clutched his chest, gasping for air. How the tears had come swiftly, how Steve had babbled and apologized over and over when Ana rushed to his side, how he tried to pull himself together when he saw the kids, but how his hyperventilating didn’t stop until after Mateo told him he’d talked to Bucky on the phone. And when Bucky’s face broke open in concerned alarm, Mateo had reassured him, too.

He said, “I understand. It’s happened to me, too. My wife was taken in the snap, too, along with my five-year-old son and his abuela. I was alone with my infant daughter. Now, my children are the same age and I spend most of my day counting heads to make sure we’re all still here. It'll take time. For all of us.”

Bucky nodded, but didn’t say anything. As long as they’ve known each other, Bucky couldn’t remember Steve ever just dropping like that. Bucky knew Steve since they were kids, when Steve would pick fights with bullies twice his size because they were picking on another kid and Bucky would find him later, bruised and limping, but grinning through the blood in his teeth. He knew him during war when they watched guys they knew go out to fight and never come back. And Steve never looked like he did that day.

It was worse when, later, Sam told him that he _had_ seen Steve like that. Once, after Bucky went back in the ice in Wakanda. It occurred to Bucky then that he’d never seen Steve like that before because he’d never seen Steve without _him_. It was an especially sobering revelation for a man who always considering himself the needy one in their relationship. He’d never thought Steve needed _him_ before.

That night, curled around each other in bed, hidden under the comforter like a blanket fort, Steve whispered to Bucky what it had felt like.

“I thought I had lost you again,” he said so quietly, Buck almost couldn’t hear him across the inches between them. “ _Again_. I thought, just for a second, that you were gone.”

“I’m right here,” Bucky whispered back, lifting his hand from its entanglement with both of Steve’s to brush his fingers over Steve’s stubbly jaw. “I swore I’d never leave you again, and I won’t.”

Steve turned his face to kiss Bucky’s palm before taking it back and holding it with both hands again, lacing their fingers together. “I know,” he sighed. “But it’s not like you’ve ever had much choice.”

“Well, I do now,” Bucky insisted. “And I choose you. I’m staying.”

Steve laughed softly, although it sounded a little sad. “You’re stubborn enough that I almost believe you.”

“Almost?” Bucky asked, offended, as he rolled onto his back, pulling Steve by their joined hands until Steve was lying on his chest. He usually removed his metal arm to sleep, but he’d left it on tonight for this exact purpose — so he could wrap both arms all the way around his scared love and hold him until he fell asleep. “I’m stubborn enough to outlast the Grim Reaper himself, and you know it.”

Steve mumbled a giggle into Bucky’s chest, but didn’t speak. Just breathed him in until his breathing evened out and started to morph into snores.

That was the night Bucky decided he was actually going to marry this man, although Steve wouldn’t propose for another few months. He always knew he was going to spend the rest of his life with Steve, no matter what, however Steve wanted him — but realizing that he wasn’t the only one who needed them to be together, who really needed this to _work_ — he knew now, he was going to marry Steve.

 

-::-::-::-

 

By the time Sam gets back to the table, Bucky is already halfway through his second helping, and Steve has finished. They both look up at him, probably expecting him to tell them who that was on the phone and what they wanted, but he’s not quite ready for that, so instead he asks, “Any plans for the rest of the night, boys?”

“I’m exhausted,” Bucky replies through another mouthful of food, which is gross. “I just want to go to bed.”

Steve gives Bucky a look at that, which Bucky doesn’t see and Sam wishes he didn’t see, that definitely implies Steve has other plans for the evening.

Sam nods. “All right,” he says definitively, exchanging a glance with Steve. “I guess I’ll do the dishes, then.”

 

Steve doesn’t actually let Sam do the dishes. He insists on them all helping out, and Bucky doesn’t protest, so Bucky ends up actually rinsing the dishes, Sam puts them in the dishwasher, and Steve packs up all the leftovers and stores them in the fridge. Bucky secretly likes doing dishes. It’s relaxing. And with all three of them working on it, the kitchen is spotless again in minutes. Bucky makes a trip outside to say goodnight to Ange, T’Kambe, Mbini, and Ome, his four favorite goats that he raised in Wakanda, which T’Challa had insisted he bring with him when he moved back to New York to be with Steve. They are very good goats.

Then, as soon as he comes back inside, Steve says goodnight to Sam and yanks on Bucky’s hand to head toward the stairs.

Presumably, Steve is pretty tired, too.

Except that as soon as they ascend to the floor they occupy together, Steve turns and crowds Bucky against the wall, caging him suddenly between his very beefy, very strong arms.

Which is _incredibly_ arousing, as it turns out.

As his back hits the wall, Bucky gasps in a hissing breath. His wide, steel blue eyes meet Steve’s more greenish, oceany hue, and he lets the air back out again, shaking his head slightly.

“That’s not fair, Rogers,” he levels as Steve hits him with a gorgeous, mischievous grin.

“Isn’t it?” Steve murmurs cheekily, before ducking his head to lay hot kisses along the column of Bucky’s neck.

Bucky writhes, moaning, as his hands involuntarily reach up to fist in his husband’s blond hair. The ring on Steve’s left hand presses, cold, against the right side of Bucky’s neck, holding him in place while Steve’s mouth sucks a bruise into the the other side, his beard leaving soft scratches all over Bucky’s tender skin.

“Mmm,” Bucky grumbles, half in protest and half in absolute arousal. He wriggles, but can’t break out of Steve’s grasp, not that he really wants to, but then Steve bites down on the corded muscle where he’s been sucking and all the fight absolutely flees Bucky’s body. He instinctively leans his weight into Steve’s body, which is now pressing him further against the wall.

Steve kisses the spot on Buck’s neck he’s been lovingly abusing, and which will _definitely_ be showing bruising tomorrow, goddamn him, and then lifts his head so Bucky can kiss his mouth. Which Bucky does readily as soon as those pink, smirking lips are within his reach. He kisses like he wants to devour Steve, and Steve gives back as good as he gets.

Sometimes making out is a struggle for dominance, and Bucky is determined to come out on top this time.

Bucky manages to position himself so that he has one leg in-between Steve’s, and at just the right moment in their frenzied kiss, he juts his thigh against Steve’s body, causing Steve to groan openly and rock down further into his husband’s hips.

And it is at that exact moment that Sam passes by on his way up the stairs to his own floor, flatly calling out, “Gross,” and completely killing the mood.

Steve dissolves into giggles against Bucky’s mouth before lifting his head up to yell, “Sorry!” over his shoulder, but Bucky raises both middle fingers around Steve, hoping Sam will catch at least one.

After Sam has waved them off and disappeared upstairs, Steve pushes himself off of Bucky and away from the wall, catching Bucky’s right hand and kissing it before he pulls Bucky up off the wall, too, and the rest of the way into their bedroom.

Bucky makes a nondescript noise of complaint as he goes to flop onto the bed while Steve picks pajamas out from the dresser. “We got married three weeks ago,” he whines. “We’re technically on our honeymoon. We should have full rights to do it _anywhere_ in our own house.”

Steve glances sideways at him, laughter in his eyes. “You do know I’m going to take you on a real honeymoon, right?” he asks, tossing a pair of pajama pants onto the bed next to Bucky.

“Yeah?” Bucky challenges back. “When?”

“When you decide where we’re going.” A shirt follows the pants. Bucky realizes they’re for him.

He lets out a mighty groan, pulling off his shirt to replace it with the clean, oversized one Steve has picked out for him. “I don’t _care_ where we go,” he says for probably the eighth time now. “I spent fifty years as an international assassin, I’ve been everywhere. We could stay here for all I care,” he adds after the new shirt has cleared his face, “I just want to be alone with you so we can bone continuously for two weeks.”

Steve pauses and frowns at him thoughtfully. “That’s a lot of continuous boning,” he says, weighing it. “I think we’d get pretty seriously dehydrated.”

Bucky makes a face right back at him. “We are both genetically-modified super humans,” he points out matter-of-factly. “Believe in yourself. If you can dream it, you can do it.”

Steve laughs and, having picked out his own pajamas now, walks over to join Buck on their bed. “Okay,” he agrees.

“Okay?” Bucky asks, confused but also lighting up.

“Yeah,” Steve says. “How about this: I’ll find somewhere to go. When we get there, we’ll bone for as long as we can without stopping. Deal?”

Bucky grins, and it melts Steve. “Deal, pal,” he says, enthusiastically sticking his hand out for Steve to shake.

Steve takes the opportunity to pull on Bucky’s hand and twist them both until he’s pinned his husband down on the bed between his knees. He grins down at Bucky’s cute, shocked face.

“You _just_ picked out pajamas for me!” Bucky exclaims at him incredulously.

Steve cocks his head. “Doesn’t mean I can’t take them off,” he replies in a deep murmur, skating his fingers under the hem of Bucky’s shirt and starting to slip it up to reveal his chest.

Bucky rolls his eyes, but he doesn’t protest at all when Steve bends down to kiss his smiling mouth.

 

-::-::-::-

 

“So, what do you guys think?”

Sam turned around from the fireplace in the brownstone Steve was showing them, awestruck.

“Steve, how did you get this place?” he asked. “This is huge. How many floors are there, four?”

Steve nodded. “And a basement,” he added, tugging on Bucky’s hand to show him around the ground floor. Bucky still hadn’t stopped spending most of his energy just staring wonderingly at Steve’s face since he got back.

Sam raised his eyebrows, impressed.

“And as for how I got it,” Steve continued, a little reluctantly, “Tony left it to us.”

Which made even Bucky stop and really look at him, stunned.

Steve took a breath. “Apparently he bought it a few years ago and never touched it, but put it his will to go to us. Pepper thinks he always wanted us to live in it, that’s why he bought it.”

“He left it to _us?_ ” Bucky asked, thinking that was probably not accurate.

“Okay, to _me_ ,” Steve relented, “but I want you both to live here, I want it to be as much yours as it is mine.”

Sam let out a soft, incredulous laugh and shook his head. “Tony bought you a house, you weren’t even talking to each other at the time,” he muttered under his breath.

“What do you think?” Steve asked again, glancing from Sam to Buck and back. “There are four bedrooms, and half of them have en suite bathrooms.” He sounded like he was trying to convince them. “The two master bedrooms are on the second and third floors which also have their own living rooms. We wouldn’t even have to live on the same floor — well, except you and I, Buck, I thought we’d share. . .unless you don’t want to, I could have one of the bedrooms on the top floor —”

Bucky’s laugh interrupted him. “Steve, are you asking me to move in with you? Because you’re doing it really badly.”

Steve rolled his eyes, but laughed in response. “Come on, pal, give me a break here. I just don’t want to be away from you, ever.”

“Very romantic, but the feeling is mutual,” Bucky said, causing Steve to make a sputtering, defensive noise before dropping Bucky’s hand to urgently turn them both to face each other and reaching up to cradle Bucky’s face between his hands.

“James Buchanan Barnes,” he said firmly, looking directly into Bucky’s wide, surprised eyes, “I love you so much. I want to live my life beside you. Would you like to move in with me?”

Bucky blinked and huffed, flustered, and Sam could tell he was trying to actnonchalant, but his face was distinctly pink when he said, “Well, all right.”

As Steve grinned and pressed their lips together, Sam sighed and turned away. It was cute, but he wasn’t about to tell them that. That would just encourage them.

“Sam, whaddya say?” Steve asked after a moment, and Sam to turned back to him. Bucky now had his arms firmly wrapped around Steve’s waist, staring at him adoringly. “Will you move in with me, too?”

Sam rolled his eyes. “You really don’t know how to not make us all sound like a throuple, do you?”

“A what?”

“A —never mind.” Sam shook his head. “How ‘bout you show me my new room, all right?”

The happiness on Steve’s face was absolutely luminous.

 

-::-::-::-

 

It’s been a year since Steve passed him the shield, and it hasn’t left Sam’s room once. It just sits in the corner, staring at him. Judging him.

It may be Thor’s hammer that officially chooses who’s worthy and who’s not, but it sure feels like that damn shield gets a say. And Sam knows he’s got what it takes, he does. Theoretically. But picking up the mantle of Captain America, carried so stalwartly by Steve Rogers for so many years — Steve Rogers, the definition of a good man, the definition of _worthy_ , self-sacrificial, noble, whatever-it-takes Steve Rogers — it’s intimidating, all right?

And it would probably be very different if Sam hadn’t woken up a year ago into a world that had moved on without him. If he hadn’t been ripped out of time in an instant and reappeared into a place where half of the people he knew were far more traumatized, weathered and worn than they had been just moments ago, and he couldn’t do anything to fix it.

If he hadn’t closed his eyes for a moment and opened them into a world where Natasha was just gone. Just like that.

Helping people through things like this used to be what he did, and now. . .well, he feels pretty useless, if he’s honest with himself.

It’s not the same for Bucky, though he went through the exact same thing. But Bucky experienced this countless times while he was a prisoner of war. Which doesn’t make it _better_ , but does make it less _shocking_. Bucky’s been going through his own shit, too, still trying to recover from the guilt of the blood his hands have spilled. It takes a lot more than the words of people who love you telling you it wasn’t your fault to accept the things you’ve done. Sam knows that from experience.

And Steve needs some peace. He went through so much, for so long, and he was alone for too much of it. So Sam is willing to carry this weight for himself.

Still, he’s ashamed of the way that proud, heroic shield collects dust.

It’s staring at him again when his phone rings. Sam narrows his eyes at the star-spangled vibranium as though to tell it they’re not done here, before reaching over himself to get his phone off his nightstand.

He sighs heavily when he sees the name on the caller ID.

“Wilson,” he answers.

“Hi, Sam,” Maria Hill’s voice chimes on the other end of the call. “I just wanted to follow up on our conversation last night.”

“Mmm,” Sam says suspiciously. “Just a follow-up. Fourteen hours after we last talked. Sure.”

Agent Hill lets out a short laugh. “I’m not trying to pressure you, Wilson —”

“Sure you aren’t.”

“— _but_ , I am concerned about my team’s findings —”

“Agent, do you have any more intel than you did last night?”

Hill pauses. “No,” she admits eventually.

“Then we don’t have anything to talk about,” Sam says firmly. “I told you last night, I’m not charging into a scene like that based on a hunch. Not right now, not when everyone’s still on edge.”

“Wilson, it isn’t just a hunch,” Maria insists. “I have years of experience with this. I’ll have you remember my own organization was infiltrated. I know the signs, and it looks like Hydra to me.”

Sam sighs. “I know, and I’m not discounting your experience or your competence. I recognize that you are the best, Agent Hill, but it’s an educated guess. A hunch.”

He can hear Hill’s hesitation before she says, “I understand, Sergeant.”

Now Sam feels bad. “Maria,” he begins, addressing her as her friend for the first time in this conversation, “I’m not saying I won’t ever go in. I just need more before I can justify it.”

“I get it, Sam,” she answers, and it sounds like she means it. “Can I say something unofficially to you?”

“As a friend?”

“Yeah.”

Sam smiles. “I’ll allow it.”

“If you’re worried about taking up the Captain America name —”

“I didn’t say that.”

“That's why I said _if_ , Wilson. And _if_ you are worried, I get it. But you’re the right choice. Steve knew what he was doing when he gave it to you. And you’re right that people are on edge, still. I think seeing Captain America return would do a lot to help their collective morale. You’re going to be amazing.”

“I already am amazing,” Sam retorts, “but thank you. I’ll think about it.”

“Okay,” Maria agrees. “I won’t bug you again until I have more intel, all right?”

“Thank you.”

“But call me if you change your mind, Wilson!”

Sam laughs. “I will, Agent Hill.”

They say their goodbyes and hang up, but Sam sits a minute with his phone in his hand, thinking, before he finally slides his feet to the floor and stands to head downstairs.

When he gets down to the ground floor, Bucky is sitting on the couch, a cup of coffee in his metal hand, a newspaper spread across his lap. He looks up and says a soft, “Hey,” as Sam steps off the stairs and heads past him to the kitchen.

“Morning, Barnes,” Sam replies. “You know they put those things on the internet now, right?”

“In 1934,” Bucky begins loudly, and Sam immediately starts to roll his eyes at _this again_ , “when I turned seventeen years old, I started reading the paper every morning with breakfast before I went to work. I became a man that year, and if it was good enough for me then, it’s good enough now.”

Sam mouths the last twelve words along with him from his place in front of the coffee machine, picking out a mug for the morning from the cabinet. Bucky really likes to use that line whenever he can, and Sam is one hundred positive it’s because he’s trying to assert age dominance over him.

Sam knows Bucky likes to read the paper because it’s something from his past before the war that he can continue to indulge in. It’s also why he likes listening to records and (very occasionally, and only when Steve isn’t there) smoking cigarettes. It’s something that lets him forget, for a moment, about everything that came after. Specifically, his years being tortured by Hydra. But that’s not fun to tease him about, so they both act like it’s simpler than that.

“Where’s Steve?” Sam asks, changing the subject as he finishes pouring his coffee and heads back into the living room.

“He went for a run,” Bucky answers as Sam sits on the armchair to his left. “He was going to ask if you wanted to go with him, but then he decided he wanted to go really fast and I told him he was a dick because he just wanted to lap you a bunch of times again.”

Sam snorts into his coffee. “That was uncharacteristically kind of you.”

“Fuck you, I’m a very kind person,” Bucky replies, eyes on the paper as he turns the page.

“Right. Sure.”

Bucky levels a glare at Sam, but there’s a slight twitch at the corner of his mouth and his eyes are warm despite themselves.

Sam opens his mouth to say something actually nice for once (it’s easier to be genuinely nice to each other when Steve isn’t there to make heart eyes at them every time they so much as smile at each other), when he’s interrupted by a solid knock on the front door.

Both veterans’ heads turn toward the sound automatically.

“Do you think it’s Steve?” Sam asks, standing up to go answer it. “Did he forget his keys again?”

“No, I watched him take them,” Bucky answers in a low voice, his eyes trained on the door as he shifts the newspaper off his lap and sets his cup down on the coffee table. Sam suspects he’s got one hand ready to grab the knife he keeps under the couch in case of trouble. It’s generally better that Sam be the one to greet any unexpected guests.

When he gets to the door, though, he checks the peephole first.

“It’s a woman,” he says over his shoulder to Bucky, soft enough that she won’t be able to hear him through the door. “I don’t recognize her.”

Buck nods at him, a signal to go ahead and open the door, so he does.

The woman looks up at him as the door swings open just wide enough for Sam to talk to her. She looks to be in her mid twenties or so, and has gentle brown eyes, framed by shallow laughter lines. Her hair is pastel pink with dark roots just starting to show through, tied into a hapless bun on her head. It’s messy in an unintentional way, like she’s been running her fingers through her hair, forgetting it’s tied up. She’s small, but just her stance tells Sam she’s tough and determined, since she looks ready to stand off against him right now, and he’s barely laid eyes on her. He notices intricate and deeply faded mehndi covering both of her hands, as her fingers pick nervously at each other in front of her waist.

“Yes?” he asks, not unkindly, and opens the door just a little bit more so Bucky can see her clearly.

“Hi,” the woman begins in a nervous rush of air. “You’re Sergeant Wilson, right?”

Sam frowns at her. “Yeah,” he says slowly. “How did you get this address?”

“I’m so sorry to bother you,” the woman says instead of answering. “My name is Rashida, I need your help.” Then she looks past him and nods respectfully. “Sergeant Barnes.”

Sam looks over to see Bucky still by the couch but standing now, meetingher gaze. He nods back.

“Bucky,” he corrects.

That’s usually a sign that Bucky feels all right with someone, so Sam widens the door even more and steps back so Rashida can enter. She only takes a step over the threshold and hovers there. Sam doesn’t yet shut the door behind her.

“What do you need help with?” Bucky asks her, not moving toward her.

Rashida takes a deep breath, then says bluntly, “I need Captain America.”

Sam’s frown deepens. “Hey,” he starts defensively, “Steve retired a year ago, you can’t ask him to —”

“I know that,” Rashida interrupts him, looking from Sam to Bucky and back. “Which one of you is it now?”

Sam and Bucky meet each other's eyes at the same moment. There’s the faintest trace of a question in Bucky’s eyes at first, but he seems to get his answer in Sam’s look pretty quickly, because he turns back to Rashida and answers: “Neither of us. That was Steve, and he’s done now.”

Rashida’s eyes close as her tone of voice shifts, revealing a desperation she’d kept pretty well hidden until now. “Please,” she begs, her voice breaking. “They took my brother, I don’t know who else to go to. The police won’t believe me, the Avengers are all gone, I can’t get SHIELD to listen to me, I just need someone to help. And Captain America cared,” she insists, clearly emotional. “He always did the right thing.”

Sam looks back at Bucky again, who’s already got his eyes on Sam. He sighs. He can’t just turn this woman away, can he?

“Who took your brother?” he asks.

Rashida takes another deep breath, like she’s gearing up to be rejected again. Then she looks Sam dead in the eyes, and say, “Hydra.”

Bucky's eyes widen immediately, and his mouth opens slightly in surprise. Sam feels a shot sting through his heart. Maria was right, and he didn’t listen. Maria was _right_.

“Come in, please,” Sam tells Rashida, and goes to shut the door finally as Bucky gestures to the couch.

When Rashida is settled in with a cup of coffee with cream between her shaking hands, Bucky sitting on the other side of the couch to her and Sam seating himself back on the armchair, Bucky asks her to start from the beginning.

“Okay,” Rashida answers tentatively. “I’m not sure where the beginning really is. I guess. . . . When the first snap happened six years ago, my brother and I were left here and our parents disappeared.”

“I’m so sorry,” Bucky says, sympathy rich in his voice.

Rashida nods. “It was hard,” she agrees. “But there was more than that. Right before everyone disappeared, there was this huge. . .pulse. After that, Simon and I started to notice some. . .changes.”

“What kind of changes?” Sam asks carefully.

“Physical things,” Rashida answers, her eyes fixed determinedly on the coffee table instead of meeting Bucky’s or Sam’s. “Abilities. Suddenly, heavy things didn’t feel so heavy anymore. Cuts and scrapes healed faster. Simon kept feeling electric shocks when he’d touch anything. I started finding lost things just out in the open where I knew I had looked before. Like I was manifesting them, or something.”

Bucky shifts his gaze toward Sam’s, then focuses back on Rashida.

“Then there was the second snap,” Rashida continues. “Our parents were back, and we were so relieved, we didn’t notice at first. But I woke up one morning on the ceiling, just floating there. And Simon caused a block-wide power outage when he got angry and electricity shot out of his eyes. I think that’s what got him noticed.”

“When did Hydra come for him?” Bucky asks in a low voice.

Rashida finally looks up and meets his eyes. “The next morning. My parents asked him to go pick up some vegetables for dinner. He was on his way back from the farmers market, I could see him coming down the street from where I was picking herbs at the window. A black van pulled up next to him and stopped, and five people jumped out and grabbed him. I saw him try to fight them off, I could see the lightning coming out of him, but they were wearing these suits that kept his electricity from hurting them. I screamed, and all the glass broke from where I was standing to where the van was, but they didn’t care. They got him in and they drove off, and I haven’t see him since. That was a week ago.”

Bucky is frowning thoughtfully to himself. “How do you know it was Hydra?” he asks eventually.

“I didn’t,” Rashida responds, “until I did some research. I don’t like to brag, but I’m genius-level, and I know how to manipulate people if I want to. I found a forum on the dark web of people who worship Hydra, because they were talking about how they want to find Hydra’s base in New York to help round up ‘undesirables’ like my brother and I.”

Bucky visibly flinches.

“Apparently there have been a few other kidnappings like this, but they’ve been kept pretty far under wraps.”

Maria was _right_.

“I posed as one of them and asked some questions, and I’m not the only one who watched them take my brother.” Rashida’s eyes are lit up with righteous fury now. “They could be doing anything to him. And I know he would never give me up to them, but if they torture him —” her voice breaks there, but she pushes on, “— then I’d rather he tell them about me than get himself killed. I could be next.”

Bucky is staring at nothing, lost in his mind. Sam speaks up instead.

“You need us to find him.”

“Please,” Rashida begs again, fixing Sam with the most focused, desperate look he’s seen in a long time. “I need him back, I can’t let him stay there another minute knowing what they could be doing to him. I haven’t slept since they took him. Please, please help me.” Her eyes fill with tears for the first time. “He’s my little brother,” she says finally, in the smallest voice.

“We’ll get him,” Bucky says immediately, still staring into whatever it is he can see that Sam can’t. He doesn’t look when Sam’s questioning glance shoots his way, he doesn’t take Sam into consideration at all. He finally focuses on Rashida again, but Sam might as well not be here. His face is set, determined. “I’ll get him.”

Tears finally fall from Rashida’s eyes and she collapses forward, catching herself with her hands as her body curves over in relief, small, quiet sobs racking through her. She keeps saying, “Thank you,” over and over.

Bucky reaches out with his right hand and holds onto her shoulder for a moment, a sign of understanding and solidarity.

“Just give me a little time,” he murmurs. “I’ll find where they’re keeping him and I’ll get him back.”

“We both will,” Sam adds finally. He may be scared, but there’s no way in hell he’s letting Barnes do this on his own. Bucky looks at him with grateful eyes and nods.

 

Rashida collects herself quickly, thanks them both a dozen more times, then gives them all the information she has on Hydra and a thorough description of Simon, including physical copies of pictures of him, and then leaves with their promise that they’ll be in touch as soon as they know anything.

When she’s gone, Sam crosses his arms and fixes Bucky with a look. Bucky, probably trying to avoid any sort of consequence, ignores him and goes to warm up his now-cold cup of coffee.

“What was that?” Sam calls after him, following him into the kitchen. He is not getting out of this. “I thought we don’t take jobs without consulting each other.”

“I didn’t say you’d take it,” Bucky points out, still not looking directly at him. “I took it for myself, you didn’t have to join me.”

“Bucky, we _agreed_ —”

“Sam, this isn’t just some job!” Bucky suddenly rounds on Sam, yelling and spilling his coffee all over the counter in the process. “This is a _kid_ with superpowers that’s been kidnapped by Hydra. I know what they do to people, I can’t just _let them_ do it to this kid, too.”

Bucky almost never yells, but when he does, it’s loud. Sam, to counter him, lowers his voice and tries to sound calming without being condescending.

“Listen, Buck, I get it, okay?” he says evenly, grabbing one of the dish towels hanging off the oven and handing it to Bucky so he can start sopping up the spilled coffee. “I know what they did to you.”

“You don’t know everything,” Bucky mutters under his breath.

Sam sighs. “Okay,” he concedes. “I don’t. But we don’t _know_ that this is Hydra, do we?” _We have a pretty good idea that it is, since Maria Hill has been warning you about this for two weeks_ , Sam’s brain helpfully provides.

Bucky turns back to him again, eyes dark. “Yes,” he says gravely, “we do.”

Sam frowns at him questioningly.

“I was twenty-eight when they got me, Sam,” Bucky continues, and he’s not shouting anymore. “It’s been eighty years since I’ve had even a moment of peace because of _them_. Her story makes sense, and she’s got proof to back it up,” he adds, tapping the print-outs she brought them. “I gotta do this, Sam. With or without you.”

“Well you’re not doing it _without_ me, don’t be stupid,” Sam argues. “If you’re doing it, I’m doing it, too, I just need a good enough reason why.”

“Am I a good enough reason?” Bucky shoots at him.

Sam blinks and looks away. This son of a bitch is really gonna make him say it.

“Yeah,” Sam finally says, “you are. I trust you.”

Bucky nods silently and drops his gaze. Sam is pretty sure that’s where this conversation is ending right now, so he turns to go back into the living room and give Bucky his space when he hears Bucky ask, “Are you going to take up the shield?”

Sam turns around slowly. “What?”

Bucky’s face isn’t accusatory, but Sam feels defensive anyway. “I’m not trying to pressure you,” Bucky says softly, echoing Maria exactly. “I just need to know.”

“Bucky, I don’t know —”

“Because,” Bucky interrupts, holding up one hand to stop Sam’s protest, “if you don’t want to. . .I do.”

Well _that_ is not what Sam was expecting him to say at all. Sam’s arms unfold and drop by his sides in surprise.

“You _what?_ ”

“I don’t want to take it from you,” Bucky assures him quickly. “If you want it, it’s yours, Steve gave it to you. But if you. . .well, I’ve been thinking about it a _lot_ and I want to do it. I want to do something good. I want to be something other than the Winter Soldier.”

Sam considers him for a moment before speaking. “You’ve been thinking about this a lot?” he asks.

Bucky nods vehemently.

Sam looks down at the floor. For all his worries and fears, he doesn’t want to just give this up. But if Bucky wants it so badly — if it would help him, make him happy. . . .

Bucky cuts through his thoughts. “I was kind of thinking we’d do it together.”

Sam’s eyes snap up to meet his again. “What?” he asks for the third time.

“I don’t want to take it from you,” Bucky repeats. “And it’s a lot of responsibility for one person. I thought. . .maybe we could share it. If you want to.”

Something deep in Sam’s chest, that has been whirring around non-stop for a year, settles.

“Okay,” he says, taking even himself by surprise at how quickly he agrees.

Bucky’s face lights up. “Okay?”

“Yeah,” Sam agrees. “We’ll share it. But I’m in charge.”

Bucky grins. “We’ll see about that.”

Anything Sam is about to retort is completely sidelined by the _weird squeak_ that suddenly emits from around the corner in the living room.

“Steve?!” Bucky calls out in alarm while Sam is actively trying not to respond by shooting on sight (he knows where Bucky’s hidden guns are). “Are you eavesdropping?”

And suddenly Steve does, indeed, appear from around the corner, looking proud and emotional.

“I’m so sorry!” he cries, waving his hands around. “I came in and you were yelling and I didn’t want to interrupt, and then I heard what you were talking about and I shouldn’t have kept listening, but I’m so _proud!_ ” He takes Bucky’s face in his hands like someone’s grandma, and then turns shining eyes on Sam.

“Steve, _oh my god!_ ” Bucky yells at him.

“I love you so much,” Steve replies, gathering Bucky into his arms in a forced hug.

Bucky quickly gives up trying to struggle and just falls limp in Steve’s arms until Steve suddenly jerks away from him.

“But what’s this about Hydra?”

 

Steve fucking loves to see Bucky sweaty, panting, and happily exhausted. Particularly when it’s because Steve just spent the last forty minutes systematically taking him apart.

Now is one of those times.

Pushing his sweat-soaked hair out of his eyes, Buck takes a second to catch his breath while Steve watches him fondly.

“What?” he asks, noticing Steve’s gaze.

Steve smiles, soft. “I love you,” he says simply.

Bucky grins. “Back at you, Rogers.” He reaches up to push Steve’s hair off his forehead, and maybe Steve is a little sweaty, too. Bucky makes a little happy humming noise, cupping Steve’s face in his cool metal palm for a moment, and then drops his arms back over his head with a satisfied sigh.

He’s so fucking gorgeous, Steve thinks, settling down on his elbows to gaze upon and appreciate the absolute beauty of the man he married, naked and glistening and spread-eagled and absolutely wrecked. He’s got a fair few red marks dotting his whole body from where Steve very recently left teeth marks, but most notably there’s a large, purpled bruise on the left side of Bucky’s neck from last night in the hallway, and Steve is really proud of that. Without thinking about it, he reaches out and wraps his hand around Bucky’s throat, pressing his thumb into that bruise.

“Ow!” Bucky cries out indignantly, trying to squirm away from him. “What the fuck, pal?

But Steve just grins and ducks down to press his lips there instead, then nuzzles Bucky’s neck, which changes his attitude immediately from squirmy to snuggly.

“Thank god Sam’s at therapy right now,” he mutters, nesting himself inside Steve’s arms.

“Yeah,” Steve agrees, shifting so Bucky can lay his head on his chest, “you were _loud_.”

Buck scoffs. “Me?” he demands. “You were the one banging the headboard against the wall like you were trying to blow a hole through it.”

“Yes,” Steve agrees, “but you were the one screaming.”

The grin Bucky shoots up at him then is absolutely wicked.“But you were the one making me scream,” he points out.

“I did do that,” Steve concedes smugly.

They both hear a noise like a baby cry just outside their bedroom door.

“You better let her in,” Bucky sighs.

Steve glances down at him. “Me?” he asks. “Why me?”

“I’m comfy!” Bucky protests.

“You’re comfy because I’m cuddling you, buddy.”

Another cry.

“Let her in, she’s crying!” Bucky demands, and Steve laughs and rolls his eyes, but gets up to do as he’s told.

Talia comes trotting inside, tail straight up and ears perked, the second Steve opens the door. She pauses a moment to thump her body against Steve’s ankle fondly, but then she makes a beeline to Bucky, who is clearly her favorite human.

“Hi, baby!” Bucky coos at her in a high pitched baby voice, opening his arms to her as she walks up onto his chest and then flops down on him and purrs.

Talia is a particularly special cat. The week they moved into the brownstone, Bucky had been out for a run in the rain — he really enjoys rain, he likes how it feels in the summer when warm droplets fall on his skin — when he heard what sounded to him like a loud, high-pitched baby cry coming from a dumpster in the alley he was passing. Bucky has always been really good at rescuing small creatures in alleys. It’s one of his many skill sets. He’d stopped and rushed to the dumpster, actually climbing in carefully and sifting through garbage until he caught sight of her: this tiny little white kitten, covered in black splotches and little spots of ginger tabby, just screaming her tiny lungs out.

That had been pretty much that. Bucky scooped her up and was instantly deeply in love (it wasn’t unlike the first time he’d met Steve, really). He looked through the rest of the dumpster, but she was all alone, so he’d taken her home and looked up at Steve with his giant blue eyes while the kitten looked up at Bucky with hers. He didn’t even really have to ask the question before Steve had agreed to keep her. Sam also didn’t need to be convinced, he had immediately slipped into baby talk the second he saw her. They took her to a vet the next day, got her vaccinated and spayed when she was big enough, and Bucky has been spoiling her ever since.

He’s now giving her little kisses on her small head as she closes her eyes contentedly and her rumbling purrs increase in volume.

Steve smiles at the both of them, locating his underwear and picking them up to put back on his body. He also tosses Bucky’s toward him in case he decides he wants to get dressed as well.

The frenzied undressing had actually happened when Steve came up to change out of his running clothes and Buck had followed him. One thing had led to another and changing clothes just turned into taking them off, so now that things have calmed down a little, Steve gathers up his workout clothes to toss them in the hamper and heads for the closet to find something new to wear.

When he gets there, something catches his eye. A glint of red vibranium.

His shield.

Some version of him gave one shield to Sam a year ago, he knows, although this version of him has no memories of that event. That had been his plan all along, so it worked out, but when he showed back up on that platform, desperate to undo his mistake, Sam was holding his shield, and so was he. They didn’t know what to do with two of them, so Steve had just put this one in the closet and left it there, trying to get it out of his mind.

It never left, though. He’d passed the mantle on to Sam a year ago, the name, the shield, and everything that went with it, but as long as there was another shield in his closet, Steve could never really feel like he was done.

It’s kind of buried underneath a year’s worth of closet debris and clothing items that never quite made it into the adjacent hamper, so Steve has to tuck his head into the closet and bend down to get it out.

Bucky is finishing pulling his pants back on when Steve turns around with the shield in his hands. His eyes meet Steve’s and the weight of it hits him for the first time.

“What’s that?” he asks, even though he knows full well what it is.

Steve gives him a soft smile. “It’s yours,” he says quietly.

 _It’s yours_. The reality rises in Bucky with the heat in his cheeks. He’s been thinking about this for months, but part of him never actually thought it would happen. There was a small piece of him that expected Sam or Steve or _someone_ to tell him no. No, not you. You’re not enough for _this_.

But now it’s his.

It’s cool in his hands as Steve passes it over. It feels so familiar, like an old friend — he’s used it before, after all — its weight feels _good_. Bucky slips the straps over his arm, staring at it like it might disappear.

When he looks back up at Steve to gauge his reaction, there are tears in Steve’s eyes.

“It looks good on you,” he says.

“Are you okay about this?” Bucky asks him.

Steve gives him a confused smile. “Of course,” he replies instantly. “Why would I not be okay?”

“It’s a lot to process. It’s okay if you have mixed feelings. It was yours for a long time.”

Steve shakes his head. “I don’t have mixed feelings,” he says. “Yes, it was mine, and yes, it’s a _thing_ to give it up, but I’ve been ready for this for a long time now, and I’m _so proud_ of you, Buck.”

Bucky looks back down at the shield, butterflies rampantly taking over his stomach.

Steve catches his look and sits down on the bed near him. “You know you don’t have to do this if you don’t want to,” he says gently. “I will not be any less proud ofyou if you decide it’s not what you want after all. We can call SHIELD, see if they can handle this. Or we could see if Thor is around. Or. . .or I can pick up the shield again —”

“You’re not coming out of retirement,” Bucky says instantly, his voice low, almost a growl.

“Just this once,” Steve assures him.

Bucky sighs, sets the shield down and sits next to his reckless, selfless love. “It won’t ever _be_ ‘just this once,’ though,” he says gently, squeezing Steve’s knee. “If you go back in for this, you aren’t ever going to be allowed to stop. You deserve some rest.”

Steve pauses. Looks down at his lap. Nods, just a little, accepting the truth in that.

Bucky nods back. “I can do this.”

“You deserve rest, too,” Steve says softly, covering the hand on his knee with one of his own.

Bucky lets out a mirthless, bitter laugh. “Not yet,” he mutters, almost to himself.

“What does that mean?” Steve asks shrewdly. He knows what that means.

The silence that follows, and the way Bucky suddenly won’t look him in the eye, tells him he’s right.

“You don’t have to atone for your past,” Steve tells Bucky firmly. “Don’t make this penance.”

And then Bucky’s eyes meet his again, clear but dark. The look he gives Steve is significant, heavy.

Steve tries his best to get through to him. “You weren’t in control. It wasn’t you.”

“I know that,” Bucky answers steadily. “Doesn’t make what I did okay.”

Steve frowns.

“It’s not about that, anyway,” Bucky begins, but Steve gives him a look that clearly says _‘bullshit.’_ Bucky laughs again, but this time it sounds lighter. “Okay,” he admits, “maybe it’s a _little_ about that. Listen, I went to war to fight the Nazis. I ended up a pawn for Hydra. They took my mind and they twisted it, used my body to fight for them. Those fucking Nazis who used me are still here, which means my job ain’t done. So yes, give me your shield.”

Steve seems to get that, and he smiles at Buck with pride shining in his eyes.

“And also leave the other one with Sam, because I’m not trying to have that much responsibility.”

Steve laughs, big and booming and real, and Buck grins back at him because how can he not?

He’s ready. He’s doing this.

 

Sam swings the door shut behind himself, handing the warm pizza boxes over to Bucky’s waiting arms. “They on their way?”

“Yeah, she texted me just now, they just got off the subway,” Bucky answers, going to deposit the pizzas on the coffee table in front of Steve, who takes his feet off the table to make room, all the while not taking his frowning eyes off his computer screen. “They should be here literally any second, I’m surprised you didn’t see them walking up.”

“You sure this isn’t going to get you guys in any trouble?” Steve asks over his shoulder, right before the doorbell rings.

Bucky just laughs as he heads for the door.

He swings the front door open to the small, waiting faces of Princess Shuri of Wakanda and Peter Parker. Of Queens.

“Ah, trouble herself!” Bucky exclaims loud enough for Steve to hear, lighting up at Shuri’s smile. He steps forward to meet her, open-armed, and gives her the kind of bear hug he only bestows on a few people on earth. “Hey, kid,” he mutters as she squeezes him back.

“Hello, brother,” Shuri responds softly. They both take a second before they let go of each other. It’s been a little while since they’ve seen each other in person.

When she lets go, Bucky ushers her inside and reaches out to hug Peter, too. “Hey, Pete.”

“Hi, Mr. Barnes,” Peter says, nervously returning the hug. “Did Shuri tell you I was coming? I know I wasn’t invited and I don’t want to intrude —”

“She did,” Bucky tells him, stepping back to let him inside where Shuri is already hugging Sam, and then Steve in greeting. “But you know you’re always welcome here, Peter, invitation or no.”

“Thanks, Mr. Bucky,” Peter says.

“I told you not to call me that.”

“Right,” Peter stammers, flustered now. “Uncle Barnes. Uncle Sergeant. I mean —”

“Just Bucky is fine, Peter.”

“Right. Sorry.”

Bucky meets eyes with Sam over Peter’s head, trying not to laugh, but one look sets both of them off. All they can do is try to pass it off as coughing enough that Peter won’t feel self-conscious. Luckily Peter Parker isn’t the most observant of superheroes.

“Hey, Queens!” Steve calls from the couch, where Shuri is settling down next to him and immediately reaching for the pizza.

“Hi, Uncle Steve,” Peter responds, a little more relaxed. He gives Steve a hug and then parks himself on the armchair.

“Are we going straight to work,” Shuri asks through a mouthful of pizza, “or are we catching up first, _Captain?_ ” The last word is directed at Bucky, a smirk on her face.

“Oh good, you told them?” Steve asks, lighting up.

Bucky rolls his eyes. “I told _Shuri_ ,” he responds pointedly, flopping down next to her. “I’m guessing _she_ told Peter.” He’s staring at Shuri, but he’s not doing a good job covering his smile.

Peter grins, looking from Bucky to Sam, who is behind the sofa. “I think it’s so cool you guys are becoming Captains America,” he says.

Steve looks up at Sam and then stares at Bucky as he says, “Me, too.” Bucky has his hair tied up tonight, knotted at the crown of his head, and he’s _beautiful_.

“All right,” Bucky groans, wincing, and reaches out to get a slice of pizza to try to deflect some attention from himself, even though Steve shows no sign of ceasing the sappy goddamn smile he’s beaming toward Bucky. “Let’s work first, little sister, then we can gab to our hearts’ content.”

“Aye aye, Captain,” Shuri responds, and Bucky nudges her.

Steve passes Shuri his laptop, and she sticks the crust of her pizza in her mouth to have free hands to take it. “That’s what I’ve got so far,” he tells her. “I couldn’t find much.”

“That’s why I’m here,” Shuri says around the pizza crust, scanning the information Steve has compiled quickly before she pulls a thumb drive out of her pocket, ripping a chunk off the crust with her teeth, and getting to work. She slides down onto the floor so she can use the coffee table at eye level, and plugs the thumb drive in, then activates one of her Kimoyo Beads, projecting an image of something indiscernible as her personally-developed software starts scanning and she starts typing in all of Steve’s findings.

“You are so awesome,” Sam mutters, leaning forward over the back of the sofa to watch her process, fascinated.

Shuri smirks. “I know.” She then directs to Bucky, “Are you ready to help me in a moment?”

“It’s why I’m wearing my arm,” Bucky answers.

He doesn’t always leave his left arm on when he’s at home or running small errands. It’s incredibly helpful to have, obviously, and Shuri made it to very individualized specifications for him, but Bucky really enjoys being without it sometimes, after his time living without it in Wakanda.

Learning to live as an amputee for the first time when he came out of cryo there was a difficult transition, and it took him a while to get used to it, but in many ways he deeply loved it. It was, after all, the first time since he fell off that godforsaken train that every piece of his body had truly belonged to _him_. The doctors in Wakanda had to reconstruct all of his shoulder and parts of his collar bone after Hydra had removed all of those bones to build him a left arm that was totally theirs, but when Shuri made his new arm — _his_ arm — she had ensured that it would be strong enough never to pop out when Bucky wasn’t expecting it, but removable at the shoulder whenever he felt like being free from it. She’d also confided in him that if his arm ever suffered another devastating blow, it would automatically shut off sensation so he wouldn’t be personally hurt.

She did that after, when she was interviewing him about what he needed from his arm, he had confirmed to her that having it blown off felt like dying. That he had, in the moments after, thought he was actually about to die.

Which is saying something. His body has been through a _lot_.

Shuri’s program completes its scan, and she indicates to Bucky that she’s ready so he’ll hold out the palm she created for him.

That’s the other thing — when she made his arm, she added a _lot_ of cool Wakandan technology. Including built-in, hidden Kimoyo Beads. Mostly so he could easily talk to her, and to T’Challa, who literally adopted him as their brother just months into his time awake there. Another thing Hydra stole from him: being a brother. Another thing Shuri and T’Challa gave him back. He owes them so much, and they’d never allow him to pay them back even if he could. They’re his family now, and he loves them desperately.

It also came deeply in handy that time some asshole politician, trying to get elected, had built his campaign on the promise that he would arrest and charge the newly-returned “terrorist and war criminal” James Buchanan Barnes. When the cops had shown up to take him away while Bucky was walking back to the house from the corner bodega, they hadn’t even really finished identifying themselves to him before one of them hung up the phone she was on and they all started apologizing profusely. Apparently T’Challa had gotten word of the arrest, and made a call to someone pretty damn high up in the American government, telling them in no uncertain terms that, “as a legal member of the Wakandan royal family, James Buchanan Barnes has full diplomatic immunity,” and that if anyone wanted to challenge that by arresting him, they could deal with T’Challa, and the wrath of Wakanda, personally.

No one has dared to bother Bucky since. It’s a little embarrassing.

“And. . . ,” Shuri begins, and taps a few times on the projection coming out of her Kimoyo Bead, “done!”

All at once, the room is flooded with blue light. A large scale picture is being displayed from Shuri’s wrist and Bucky’s open palm together. A detailed 3D rendering of a building.

Bucky squints up at the floor plan as Shuri moves it around a bit with her hand in the air, zooming out for a better overall view.

“Where is this place located?” he asks her.

“220 Plymouth Street,” Shuri answers, checking the laptop screen. “Not far from here, it looks.”

But Steve and Bucky are already looking at each other, both frowning in that way that makes Sam nervous.

“What?” he asks them. “What is it?”

“In DUMBO?” Bucky asks Shuri quietly, and she nods.

“That’s what it looks like.”

Bucky looks back at Steve, who keeps his eyes on Buck when he says, “That’s right near my mom’s old place. That’s where Bucky and I first lived together.”

Which makes Sam frown, too. “You think that’s a coincidence?” he asks.

“Doubt it,” Bucky responds, turning back to the building rendering and moving it around himself. “Hang on, Plymouth Street? Is this the place across from the Chabad? I thought that building was all apartments?”

“It looks like it _is_ apartments,” Shuri answers, changing the view so they can all see the whole block. “Hydra must be operating out of them.”

“That's weird.”

“Hang on, how do you know this building?” Steve asks Bucky. “When were you over there, and how do you know about the Chabad?”

“I take walks in DUMBO all the time,” Bucky says casually.

“Why?” Sam asks.

Bucky waves his free hand around dismissively, making a vague kind of noise. “I used to _live_ there,” he says. “I can’t be nostalgic?”

“No, no, _you_ can be excessively nostalgic,” Sam retorts, “but go on.”

“How did I not know about this?” Steve presses, deeply offended apparently. “You take walks in DUMBO without me?”

“Steven, you do not have to be involved in _every_ part of my life, okay?”

“Yes I do, we’re married!”

“All right, enough,” Sam says, cutting through this particular marital fight to try to focus back on the task at hand. “So Bucky knows the place, that’s probably a good —”

“Have you been going to services there?” Steve interrupts, evidently still on this.

“What?” Bucky asks, evidently not.

“You’re not Hasidic,” Steve continues. “Are you?”

“No, but —” Bucky sighs and pinches his nose. “Jewish is Jewish. I was walking by, they were reciting Kiddush, it made me think of home. I talked with the rabbi for a minute afterwards, it was nice. I’ve walked by a few times since then and the people there always say hello. Are you upset?” he asks Steve, looking a little exasperated.

“No!” Steve says instantly. “I’m not upset, I’m just surprised. I didn’t know you were practicing again.”

“I’m not really _practicing_ ,” Bucky begins, but Sam clears his throat loudly and he stops.

“I know this is a sensitive conversation,” he says calmly, “but do you guys mind having it at a later point in time? Maybe when you’re by yourselves? Maybe when Shuri and Peter aren’t here, being made really uncomfortable?”

“I’m not uncomfortable,” Shuri shrugs.

“I am,” Peter says, raising his hand slightly.

“I mean is this gonna become a _thing?_ ” Sam asks. “Because you’re Jewish and you’re Catholic and you’re married now?”

“I’m not Catholic _anymore_ ,” Steve protests. “And no, it’s not a _thing_ , I’m very supportive of Bucky’s faith or lack thereof — _whatever_ he believes — and I always have been.”

“He has,” Buck confirms, nodding at Sam. “And I’m supportive of Steve’s. We have no religion-based problems in our relationship.”

“Exactly. Wait, _religion_ -based?”

“Okay, then can we _please_ ,” Sam asks, completely exasperated now, “stop talking about whether or not Bucky is attending synagogue services and go back to talking about taking out Nazis?”

“We have _other_ problems in our relationship?”

“Nazis, Steve!” Sam yells.”Nazis!”

“We have no problems,” Bucky assures Steve. “Except, well. . .Nazis.”

“ _Thank_ you!” Sam cries. “Now, please, Shuri, brief us on everything you know here.”

Shuri complies and begins to explain the details of the building to them while Bucky takes notes and Sam watches intently. Steve, slightly more zoned out, reaches across the space on the couch Shuri used to occupy to hold onto Bucky’s leg, both of Bucky’s hands otherwise occupied.

Peter watches quietly as Shuri, Sam, and Bucky exchange ideas and scenarios, and Steve joins in to problem solve any potential situations. They all agree that the first step is going to have to be reconnaissance. Tomorrow, Bucky and Sam with stealth their way into the building and try to find out where Simon is being held, and what will need to happen to get him out. Bucky stands firm that if there is a way to get him out immediately, he’s going to take it, and Sam agrees on the condition that if there is not a clear way to do that, they will regroup outside the facility first. As they finish the plan, Shuri uploads all of the information she’s gathered into the database she’s installed in Bucky’s left arm, and they call it a night for business. Steve’s hand doesn’t leave Bucky’s leg once.

“All right,” Sam says finally, standing up from where he ended up sitting on the floor and stretching his arms over his head. “I think we earned ice cream. Who wants to go with me?”

“I will,” Peter offers immediately. “Can I get a sundae?”

“I’ll allow it,” Sam tells him. “Mr. Inheritance, wanna come so you can pay?” he directs to Steve.

“Yeah, okay,” Steve agrees, making a show of being put out. “Only if I get two scoops, though.” He leans over as he’s standing up, kissing Bucky tenderly before he whispers to him, “Be right back.”

Bucky smiles sweetly back at him and nods. “I’m gonna stay here,” he tells Sam. “I don’t want to put on real pants.” He’s currently wearing pajama pants with corgis on them.

“Me too,” Shuri agrees. She points seriously at Peter. “Bring me a good flavor, and don’t fuck it up.”

Peter grins back at her.

As the others leave, Bucky leans back against the sofa and Shuri pushes herself back up off the floor to sit next to him, tucking herself under Bucky’s arm as she gets comfortable.

They sit like that in silence for a moment, before Bucky turns his head to look down at her.

“So,” he says now that they’re alone, “how are you doing, kid?”

Shuri shrugs. “Fine,” she answers. “It’s still weird, getting used to how much time has passed without us.”

Bucky nods in agreement. It’s never not weird.

“But I am all right. T’Challa is dealing with worse. Half of his kingdom was without him for five years, it is not easy for him to get back to what used to be normal.”

“That’s true for all of us,” Bucky tells her. “The whole world.”

Shuri nods. “How are you doing, big brother?” she asks him, patting his knee. “You look happier.”

And now it’s Bucky’s turn to shrug, but he can’t help how his mouth twitches into a small smile. “I’m doing okay.”

“Only okay?” Shuri presses, teasing. “I saw your face when Steve kissed you a moment ago. And I was at your wedding. I am your sister, I helped you _fix your mind_ , you cannot hide your emotions from me.”

Bucky laughs at that. “Okay, okay,” he relents. “Steve makes me happier than I’ve ever been in my entire one hundred and seven year life, are you happy? Being with him, loving him openly, and knowing he loves me too, is all I’ve ever wanted. He’s. . . ,” he struggles with how to explain it. “Good,” is what comes out.

Shuri is beaming up at him. “I am glad,” she says. “You deserve him.”

Bucky scrunches his nose at the sentiment and shrugs.

“You do!” Shuri insists, but Bucky squirms. “Do you think you do not?”

“I don’t know,” Bucky sighs. “I guess — I just know he gave up a lot for me. I don’t really know how to wrap my head around it.”

Shuri is squinting at him, leaning back out of his embrace to really examine him.

“What?”

“I think you need to stop thinking that you are not worthy of Steve’s love,” she says bluntly, taking Bucky by surprise. “You can’t see how happy you make him. _I_ can see it, and I’ve been here for two hours. You’re so smart, but right now you are an idiot.”

Bucky sputters. “What?” he cries, half offended, half impressed.

Shuri presses further. “You think he’s perfect, and you are not? He’s stupid too, sometimes, he _left_ you a year ago —”

“Hey, that’s enough,” Bucky suddenly cuts through, his voice low and serious. “I know he did. I was there. It’s not that simple, he had _reasons_ —”

“He still left,” Shuri interrupts right back, although her tone is much gentler now. “Have you talked with him about that?”

“Of course we have,” Bucky responds, a little defensively. “We got married, little sister, we talked about a lot of stuff before that happened.”

“Then why do you still think he did it because you weren’t enough for him?”

Bucky stops. He has no answer for that. Shuri holds his gaze until he drops it.

The lock on the door rattles and the others return, laden with ice cream cones. Shuri and Buck clear their faces, ready to act like they weren’t ever having his conversation, but Shuri squeezes his hand before she gets up and he squeezes back. He doesn’t have any hard feelings towards her at all, he loves her, and he knows she loves him. This is just what being loved by the princess of Wakanda is like.

Steve beelines over to Bucky, kneeling down next to him and leaning over the arm of the couch to kiss him before handing him an ice cream cone.

“You okay?” he asks softly so the others don’t hear him as they laugh over a joke Peter’s trying to tell (and having trouble because he keeps derailing it by laughing too hard at it). “You have stormy eyes.”

Bucky gazes at Steve’s kind, open, tired face. He’s good. He’s so good.

“I’m fine, buddy,” Bucky responds. “I missed you.”

The lines around Steve’s eyes crinkle deeply as he smiles. “I missed you too, Buck.”

 

There was a legitimate argument over what they were going to wear for this mission, but in the end, Sam’s stance that there’s _no point_ in being Captain America if you’re just going to pretend you’re _not_ Captain America had been triumphant. They’re not planning on being seen, anyway, but if they are, Sam wants the element of intimidation.

He also wants to lord it over Bucky that _he_ has his own custom suit designed by Shuri, and _Bucky_ does not. Mostly because Shuri hasn’t had time to finish Bucky’s yet and she made Sam’s a year ago, but still. It’s hilarious watching him try to fit into Steve’s old suit. He’s only tried on pieces at a time so far, but Bucky is slightly shorter than Steve, a little bit thicker, and no one has the ridiculous shoulder-to-waist ratio that Steve has. So it’s funny.

“Okay, _this_ , I hate,” Bucky complains loudly, grimacing and pulling at Steve’s old helmet, which he just put on his head.

Sam levels his unimpressed gaze back at Bucky. “You wanna rock up to Hydra’s front door like, ‘Yo, whaddup, it’s ya boy, the Winter Soldier?”

“ _No_ ,” Bucky huffs, annoyed. “But can’t I just wear a mask or something?”

“Do you not remember wearing a mask as the Winter Soldier?” Sam asks, genuinely incredulous.

Bucky lets out a petulant groan, like a toddler. “There’s no room for my hair!” he whines. “And it has a _chin strap!_ I mean, really? Steve, I love you more than anything, but this is objectively horrible.”

Steve leans his head out from around the corner in the kitchen, eyes narrow and decidedly _not_ amused. “You’re welcome for letting you borrow my uniform,” he responds flatly and Bucky huffs in annoyance again.

“Oh, god!” he then yells, ripping the helmet off suddenly. “Steve, this thing _stinks_ , have you ever fucking _washed this?!_ ”

“Of course I’ve washed it,” Steve responds, sounding deeply offended. “But I’ve also sweat and bled and almost _died_ in it, and again, you’re welcome.”

He goes back into the kitchen and Bucky wrinkles his nose in disgust. “Now I have to wash my hair,” he mutters before marching into the kitchen after Steve.

Sam listens in great amusement as Bucky and Steve argue and tussle a little out of sight, and then the dishwasher starts up.

“You put his helmet in the dishwasher?” Sam asks Bucky as he marches right back out of the kitchen and heads for the stairs.

“It needs to be washed!” Bucky cries out defensively before disappearing up into the second floor.

It’s really not very fair, Bucky thinks to himself. Sam’s suit is really cool — it’s got a similar star-spangled look to Steve’s older, more optimistic uniforms, but the shoulders and chest area are almost entirely white, the white star emblazoned on his chest surrounded by a circle of blue. And his “helmet” is really more like a pair of cool-looking goggles to keep his eyes protected as he flies, with white horse blinders. Also he has _wings_ and he gets to follow on Steve’s tradition of fingerless gloves — whereas they’ve actually had to go through old boxes of Steve’s to find a pair of traditional fingered gloves from one of his really old uniforms to cover up Bucky’s metal hand.

And Steve’s waist is so _fucking small_ that any of his old suits constrict Bucky’s lungs in a way that he definitely does not appreciate.

He doesn’t actually wash his hair yet — he’ll do that later, after the mission — instead, he wants to try on the whole suit at once. See if he can get used to it before he has to potentially fight in it. He’s already feeling pre-mission nerves, and it’s been some time since he’s done this. There was a part of him that hoped he was _done_ doing this, but he’s known for a while that that part of him wasn’t being realistic. But he’s about to go up against Hydra, and he’s been both wanting and dreading this for a long time.

They took everything from him. He’s only just started getting back some remnants of what he used to be.

After the uniform pieces are all on, including the straps to hold the shield Steve now says is his, Bucky straps his own holsters and utility belt on, arms himself with all the guns and knives he plans on bringing with him, and then dons the gloves and quickly disassembles and then reassembles his primary gun, then aims it, just to make sure he still can.

“Hey, Buck, Sam wanted to know —”

Bucky turns as Steve comes into the room, but Steve cuts himself off as his eyes fall on his husband, and he just stands there for a moment, gaping at him with his lips slightly parted.

“What?” Bucky asks, taken aback.

Steve shakes his head, bringing himself out of his stupor. “Nothing, I — damn.” A smile spreads across his face. “You look good, Buck.”

 _Ah._ Bucky smirks. “Are you getting hot because I look like _you?_ ” he asks, teasing, to which Steve laughs as his face turns a deep pink.

“No!” he protests, swinging the door shut behind him and crossing the room to slip his arms around Bucky’s waist. He murmurs, “I’m getting _hot_ because you look more like _you_ than I’ve seen you look since 1945.”

Bucky makes a face. “Gross.”

Steve doesn’t respond except to press his lips to Bucky’s, which is always welcome. He very quickly deepens the kiss, sliding his hands up Bucky’s uniformed back and breathing heat into his mouth. Bucky has such a _good_ mouth.

When he pauses for a moment to look deeply into Bucky’s gorgeous, expressive eyes, Steve whispers, “I love you.”

Bucky smiles warmly and nods. “I’m aware,” he says smugly, and Steve responds by shoving him against the wall behind him, pinning Bucky there with his body.

“Jerk,” he laughs.

Bucky reaches up between the arms that are holding him and brushes his thumbs across Steve’s cheeks as his eyes scan over Steve’s perfect face like he wants to live right here, right where they are, for the rest of his life.

“I love you so much, Stevie,” he breathes.

And. Well. That’s all Steve will ever need.

He can’t help it when his mouth crashes against Bucky’s again.

 

Steve only feels a _little_ bit guilty that Bucky has to get dressed again because of him, but he’s here to sensually help him this time, so he really doesn’t feel _that_ bad.

“Would you stop?” Bucky laughs as Steve presses his mouth to Bucky’s thigh before “helping” him secure his thigh holster.

“What?” Steve asks, looking up at him with wide, faux-innocent eyes from where he’s _on his knees_ in front of Bucky. “I’m helping you get dressed.”

“Mm, so you’ve said,” Buck replies, cocking one eyebrow down at his perfect dumbass. “I can’t go into this mission with a boner, it’ll just be confusing for everyone.”

Steve grins triumphantly and kisses Bucky’s other thigh for good measure before he stands up and kisses Bucky’s lips, too. “I could take care of that for you,” he offers altruistically.

“You already have,” Bucky points out, his eyes crinkled in amusement, no matter how much he’s trying to pretend he’s not. “And I think Sam might be waiting for me downstairs by now.”

Steve makes a show of rolling his eyes, but relents, letting go of Bucky.

Except as Bucky starts to turn to pick up the shield and leave, Steve catches him and pulls him back, kissing him again, but much more urgently now.

When he looks at Bucky again, his face is serious.

“What is it, baby?” Bucky asks, his protective instincts suddenly going into overdrive at the look on Steve’s face. He’s positioned his body so he’s guarding Steve between his arms without even realizing he’s doing it.

Steve holds Bucky’s face between his hands and fixes him with the look he gives that makes people want to rush into battle for him.

“You have to promise me,” he says with such weight that Bucky will never be able to break this, “that you will come home to me after this.”

The smile Bucky gives him is sad. Heavy with the weight of everything they’ve been through. “Didn’t I already swear I’d never leave you?” he asks softly. “Do you think I’d so easily go back on my word?”

“You are coming home to me,” Steve repeats, insistent. “I need you to promise me.”

Bucky wets his lips and looks directly into Steve’s dark eyes. “I promise you,” he says seriously, “I will _always_ come home to you.”

Steve nods and doesn’t say anything else. He wraps Bucky in his arms and holds him tight. Like by doing so he can stop anything bad from happening to him. Like he can save him.

 

Sam glances up from the notes Bucky made when he hears Buck and Steve coming down the stairs. He’s already dressed, and he nods at Bucky, seeing him in full uniform for the first time. They don’t speak, but they both know what it means, and Bucky nods back. Steve disappears into the kitchen for a moment and comes back out holding his old (thankfully dry) helmet. Bucky silently pulls his hair back into a low ponytail and tucks it under itself before taking the proffered helmet and pulling it on over his face and hair.

They all three share a moment together, a collective breath in preparation for what’s about to happen.

Steve reaches out to Sam and hugs him first, holding on a little tighter than he usually does, a little longer. Then he turns to Bucky and holds him tight again. A little more time.

Bucky kisses him a promise. _I’ll see you later_. Steve seems to understand.

Sam’s eyes meet Bucky’s.

“Ready?” Bucky asks.

Sam nods. “Let’s rock.”

The three of them starting heading upstairs to the roof. Steve stands and watches them as they wave to him and then take a running start off the roof together, Sam grabbing on to Bucky at the last second before his wings catch the air and they take flight.

Hydra’s base is so close it takes them only three minutes to land on the roof of 220 Plymouth Street. Bucky stretches out as soon as his feet meet solid ground.

“Fuck,” he mutters. “That could have been less painful.”

“Hey, I’m doing the best I can,” Sam protests. “This thing wasn’t made for cargo.”

Bucky rolls his eyes. “You ready for this?” he asks.

“Yup.” Sam nods. “You?”

“As I’ll ever be.”

“Good. Got the plan?”

It’s Bucky’s turn to nod. “Get in, find Simon, get out, don’t get caught.”

“Yeah, that’s pretty much it. Comm on?”

“Comm on,” Bucky confirms.

“Cool. Don’t go offline.”

“Roger that,” Bucky agrees. “Let do this.”

“Balls deep,” Sam affirms, which causes Bucky to stop abruptly, coughing and then making a retching noise.

“ _Why?_ ” he demands as Sam just grins at him and heads for the door to the stairs.

Once Sam has overridden the lock to get inside, Bucky sets up his gear to rappel down the back side of the building. When he gets to the third floor andlocates the right window from Shuri’s briefing, it’s not hard to jimmy it open and slip into the apartment they had determined would be empty. Heat signatures showed that no one came in or out of this room for days, and thankfully they seem to have been indicative of reality, because Bucky slips through the window into an abandoned, dusty room, completely devoid of furniture or anything else.

Sam’s voice crackles in his ear over his comm. “You in yet, Barnes?”

“Affirmative, Wilson.” He picks up his rifle from the strap it hangs on across his chest, and switches on his thermal scope, scanning around to determine where any live bodies may be near him. “Doesn’t look like there’s anyone in my immediate vicinity. I’m gonna move forward on this floor.”

“Copy,” Sam responds. “All clear up here, too.”

Cautiously, gun raised, Bucky exits the room he’s in into the broader living space of the empty apartment. No one here. No heat signatures located. Checking around both corners first, Bucky moves out into the hallway.

The next few apartments are the same — empty of heat signatures and anything else. But then he comes across one that’s not.

There are no people inside it, but there is machinery. Familiar machinery. Bucky feels his stomach drop and his heart rate speed up as the recognition dawns on him.

“Sam,” he croaks over the comm. “Sam, there’s. . . .” He can’t finish the sentence. The chair they used to strap him down on when they ripped his memories out of his head looms over him.

“What’s up?” Sam asks. “You all right, Barnes?”

Bucky clears his throat. “Yeah, I’m okay,” he breathes. “But they — they’ve got. . . .” He can’t say it. Why can’t he say it?

“What?” Sam presses, sounding more worried.

But a noise in the hall behind Bucky startles him back to the here and now. He ducks fully into the apartment, scanning for a place to hide. The sounds are getting closer, so he settles on a coat closet near the door, unsheathing the knife on his hip as he shuts the door most of the way, in case he needs to engage in some impromptu hand-to-hand.

Just in time. Right as he’s settled, two Hydra agents walk inside the apartment. They’re speaking in Russian. Another jolt of unwelcome recognition.

“. . .do not expect it to survive the process,” one of them is saying to the other as they enter.

The second one shrugs. “If it does not, we will find another,” he says airily.

“Pity the losses we have suffered,” the first one continues, shaking his head as they both examine the machine Bucky knows all too well. “Starting over so often is such a hassle.”

“Yes, but finding an Asset that is already powerful will turn out much better in the end,” the second one says.

A shiver runs through Bucky at the word _Asset_. This cannot be happening. Not here, not in his own neighborhood. Not right in front of his eyes.

“I suppose.” Bucky almost wishes he had at some point forgotten how to speak Russian, just to be saved the panicked agony of hearing this conversation. “If any of them manage to survive the programming.”

He’s going to black out, Bucky realizes suddenly. The white spots cropping up in his vision are warning him that he’s about to faint. He forces himself to breathe, something he hadn’t noticed until now he’d stopped doing. He needs Sam, and he needs him _right now_ but he can’t alert him without making a sound and alerting these two Hydra agents that he’s here.

“The programming is as intense as it is for a reason,” the second one is saying now. “The first Asset was too unwieldy. It kept remembering its old life, even though it was wiped before every mission. A strong enough trigger and we lost it forever. That cannot happen again.”

Bucky knows better. He was trained _better_ , but hearing them talk about _him_ does something to him. He makes one move, just one, just a shift of his weight, but he bumps against something in the closet as he does. It makes a very soft thud, but it’s enough.

“What was that?” the first Hydra agent asks sharply as they both turn on their heels towards the sound, guns out and raised.

The second one mutters in Russian, but Bucky hears. “The closet.”

Well, that’s a big part of the plan fucked, now.

Bucky is good at this, though. He waits until the Hydra agents have crept close before he throws the closet door open, slamming it straight into the first and younger of the two agents, who stumbles back at being hit in the face with a door. In the same fluid motion, Bucky hoists up his rifle and blows a couple of rounds into the second agent, dropping him instantly. As he goes down, the first one regains his balance and aims his gun at Bucky, but Bucky’s instincts are faster than his, and he smacks the gun out of the Hydra agent’s hands, twisting his arm to spin him around so he can knife him in the throat. Another one down.

“Barnes, location!” Sam yells over the comm as a thundering of footsteps approaches fast.

“Third floor,” Bucky responds shortly, looking around for an escape, “North side. But I’m going out the window.” The window in the living room goes out onto a fire escape, thank god.

He barricades the door on the way out, throwing a bookshelf in front of it and then crushing the doorknob in his metal hand. It’ll only hold them back for a second, though, and Bucky knows this, so he doesn’t bother to try to fiddle with the window and just punches his left arm through it and climbs out through the broken glass. If his skin is torn by the shards at all, he doesn’t feel it.

“Get to the roof,” Sam tells him. “I’ll meet you there.”

But Bucky only makes it up one floor before someone grabs at him through an open window and tries to yank him back inside. On instinct, he clenches his fist around the collar of their shirt and drags them out with him instead, not even pausing before he tosses them over the side of the fire escape.

He can hear someone inside yelling, “Captain America!” through the wind rushing in his ears. He bolts up the next flight of stairs two at a time, and it really feels like he might get out, but just as he climbs up the ladder at the top and crests over onto the roof, a loud blast and a sharp pain slices through his side.

He’s been shot.

The panic, the feral fear, and the absolute rage all convalesce inside him in that moment, and he doesn’t feel like _Bucky_ anymore. He certainly doesn’t feel like Captain America.

In this moment, he doesn’t feel anything at all.

He raises his rifle like it’s nothing and he doesn’t even feel the weight of it in his hands. Bodies blur into faceless shapes, just targets to hit. The spray of bullets he sends out at them each find their marks, one after the other, and when arms grab him from behind, he throws his body backward, knocking them both off their feet, but he’s faster. He rolls over his own body back on his feet in an instant, and the culprit is dead from a shot to the face before he has a chance of scrambling to his own.

He marches forward, facing the rush of soldiers flowing out of the door on the roof with the intent to kill. He can feel the rush of air from the shots Sam fires down from the sky, taking out the agents coming up the fire escape behind him.

Sam watches helplessly as Bucky calmly walks into a crowd of Hydra agents and starts taking them out one by one, dropping his rifle to hang on its strap across his chest and instead slashing throats and stabbing bodies with the two knives he unsheathes faster than Sam can even see.

Swearing a string of profanity, Sam keeps taking out the ones Bucky leaves for him, seemingly very intentionally. This isn’t the Bucky he knows now. It’s not the peaceful, snarky, gentle man he lives with. This is the Winter Soldier, make no mistake. And the Winter Soldier is out for revenge.

“Barnes!” Sam bellows, landing on the higher level of the roof, right above the door to the stairs. Bucky breaks someone’s arm with a loud crack before stabbing him in the throat. “BARNES!” Someone shoots at Bucky and hits, and Bucky stumbles back before snarling and diving for the shooter. Another one shoots at Sam, who blocks it with his shield. Bucky’s shield is still strapped to his back, unused. “Fuck this shit,” Sam mutters to himself before screaming, “BUCKY, GET OUT OF THERE!”

Bucky looks up at the sound of his own name, eyes startled like he’s been in a trance. He gets hit in the shoulder by another bullet. He looks too pale, like he’s been bleeding out. He doesn’t stop.

A hand grabs at Bucky’s throat, but he ducks away before it makes contact, instead closing around the side of his face — around the strap on his helmet — and snapping back, yanking at his head, and then pulling his helmet clean off.

Bucky’s wide eyes meet the Hydra agent’s equally startled gaze as his hair falls down around his face, and for just a fraction of a second, everyone stops.

_It’s him._

_The Asset._

_He’s Captain America._

Bucky feels a tug on his collar, yanking him backwards, and he’s got a pistol out and aimed before he realizes his assailant is Sam, taking advantage of the shock to get Bucky out. The swarm of Hydra agents descend on him like vultures, reaching for him with poisoned talons, trying to take him back, but Sam takes to the skies and out of their reach before they can steal him again.

“Bucky, are you with me?” Sam is shouting over the sound of passing air, and he’s carrying Bucky like a baby right now. “How much blood have you lost, man?”

Blood. He’s lost blood. How much? He doesn’t know. He opens his mouth to answer Sam, but no sound comes out. It’s like he’s stuck in a dream and trying to scream, but paralyzed. He feels paralyzed.

“Bucky, stay with me, just a little longer.” He can hear Sam’s voice but it sounds a long way off. “Stay with me, Bucky, come on. You and I both promised Steve you’d make it back from this, you have to _stay with me_.”

He’s tired, so tired. He just needs to sleep a little, and then he’ll be okay. He just needs some sleep.

The last thing he hears, as the wind calms down and the storm ends, is Sam saying his name. Over, and over.

And then he sleeps.

 

 

 

 

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you for reading! If you’re interested in following me on twitter, I’m here: twitter.com/emilymacagy Come say hi!
> 
> I was hoping to post chapters pretty much weekly, but then this behemoth was 18k words, so it’ll probably be closer to bi-weekly? If not a little longer. But don’t worry, I’m working on the whole season arc! Feel free to subscribe to this motherfucker, though, or I will post updates on twitter as well!


	2. 1.02: you're the voice that's swallowing my soul

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Sam worries, and Steve remembers.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Disclaimer: NewYork-Presbyterian is actually spelled like that. Also, there's sex in this one.

He wanted so badly to be happy. What kind of person watches someone they love as deeply as Bucky has _always_ loved Steve go out and get what they’ve always wanted, and isn’t happy for them?

Bucky Barnes, apparently.

He tried, he really did. He smiled at Steve when they said goodbye, tried hard not to let him see how close he was to tears. Especially because ever since Bucky was brought back from the dead, ever since they won the fight for the entire universe, Steve had been so _cold_. Bucky knew it had been five years for Steve, even though for him it had been seconds, and he guessed Steve must have, at some point, fallen out of love with him. That the time they shared together was over. And he knew now that was true, now that Steve was gone for good.

The evidence was sitting, happier and older than Bucky will ever be, on that bench by the lake.

Bucky had no control over the way his heart broke.

At least it didn’t come as a total surprise to him, although that may have been kinder, given how terrible the days leading up to this was, but at least Bucky wasn’t totally, visibly breaking apart in front of Sam, Bruce, and this man that must’ve been Steve. At least he’d had enough warning to only do that internally.

Sam was surprised, and Bucky felt guilty about that, but Sam could take this better than he could. Sam was over there, talking to the man Bucky no longer knew — couldn’t look at for the terrible ache that Steve had grown old without him — and Sam seemed to be succeeding where Bucky was altogether failing. He was happy for Steve.

When Sam glanced back at Bucky, bequeathed with Steve’s shield, a pitying question in his eyes, Bucky had to look away from him for fear of losing the tight, desperate control he was clinging to in order to survive this.

But when Sam suddenly let out a small, surprised grunt, Bucky couldn’t stop himself from looking back at him to see what was wrong.

Steve, the old man who would never be Bucky’s again, was gone.

Completely vanished.

The only trace of him left was the shield on Sam’s arm.

Sam and Bucky looked at each other, dumbfounded, for a moment, then Sam spun around as though to try to see where the old man had gone. As though that old, feeble stranger had sprinted away without either of them noticing.

And then — _oh, and then_ — from behind them both, Bucky heard Bruce’s voice.

“Oh, thank god!” Bruce cried, his voice heavy with relief. “I thought we’d lost you for a minute!”

There was something awfully like hope scratching its way out of Bucky’s chest, painful and terrible. But he held his breath, and, slowly, he turned around.

There he was. Right there.

 _Steve_.

Bucky’s Steve, back from the past, star-spangled and standing, shield in hand, on the platform. Staring at Bucky with a deep, intense expression carved into his beautiful, worn-out features. An expression Bucky hadn’t seen since before the Snap.

He looked so _real_.

Honestly, Bucky wasn’t totally sure he wasn’t hallucinating the whole thing out of grief.

“Steve. . . ?” he asked, almost at a whisper, his voice breaking.

And Steve — it really was _Steve_ — jumped down immediately at Bucky’s rasp and ran at full tilt to him, carelessly dropping his shield to the ground on the way. He slammed into Bucky, still weak and trembling, and threw his arms around him, held him so, so tightly.

Bucky couldn’t breathe, couldn’t stop the tears welling in his eyes.

“I thought I could do it, but I can’t,” Steve gasped in his ear, relentless in his hold. “I can’t leave you, Buck, I can’t. I’m so, so sorry.”

“But, I thought. . . ,” Bucky stammered, and he couldn’t even hug Steve back, he couldn’t get his arms to do anything but hang in the air by his sides, hands open. He couldn’t form a whole question, but he managed to get out one word. “Peggy?”

Steve pulled away from him and looked directly in Bucky’s eyes, holding onto his arms in a tight grip. “I tried,” he admitted solemnly. “I went to see her, but. . .she was _happy_. She had her own life, her own family. She didn’t need me. And I thought I needed her, but. . . ,” Steve sighed and his face crumpled. “It wasn’t _her_ that I needed.”

Bucky blinked, confused and overwhelmed, and those tears in his eyes started to spill onto his face. Steve smiled at him as he began to cry, too.

“I loved her, yes,” Steve continued despite the crying. “But I love you, too,” he breathed out in an earnest rush. “I love you _now._ And, you. . . .” He laughed through his tears, taking Bucky’s face urgently between his hands as Bucky’s finally settled on Steve’s waist. “God, I can’t live without you. I need _you_. I’ve been fighting for you my whole goddamn life, I can’t just give up on this. I’m so sorry I tried.”

Bucky was crying in earnest now, his breaths hitched. “So you’re staying?” he asked simply.

Steve let out something between a sob and a laugh. “Yes, Buck,” he answered softly. “I’m staying.”

And at that, Bucky let himself dissolve into sobs as he and Steve pulled at each other until their lips met. _Finally_. That kiss was like coming up for air. Like coming back to life.

It was a minute before they separated, and when they did, they didn’t do it very thoroughly. Steve still had his hands on Bucky, Bucky had both of his arms around Steve, and after their lips parted, their foreheads pressed together.

When they finally lifted their heads, Steve turned to Sam, who was waiting a few feet away so as not to interrupt their reunion, while Bucky reached up to wipe the tears off his face, smiling for real for the first time in days.

“You scared me for a minute, man,” Sam told Steve as he reached for him.

Steve laughed and hugged Sam back with one arm, keeping the other hand fisted in Bucky’s jacket to keep him close. “Sorry about that,” he said genuinely.

Sam smiled back at him, but then quickly frowned. “One thing I don’t get,” he said, “how come you were an old man a minute ago, and now you’re not?”

Steve frowned back and tilted his head, confused. “What?”

“Old Man You was on the bench a minute ago,” Sam told him, pointing his thumb over his shoulder at said bench to demonstrate. “You, uh. . . ,” he hesitated, then continued, “you gave me your shield.”

Steve looked _very_ confused then. “That was the plan,” he answered Sam, nodding. “That’s what I told Buck I was gonna do.”

Bucky was, admittedly, still kinda crying at this point, but he nodded. He was holding on to Steve’s shirt like a baby.

“But if you came back, how were you there?” Sam asks. “And where did you go?”

Bruce, who had come up behind them and had been quietly watching and listening to them, suddenly spoke up. “Schrödinger’s cat,” he said, half to himself.

Sam, Steve, and Bucky all turned to him, the same question in all of their faces.

“Uh, this physicist in the thirties, Schrödinger,” Bruce began, lifting his hands to start explaining with them. “He developed a thought experiment, kind of a paradox, in response to Einstein’s EPR article about quantum superpositions —”

“Bruce, I gotta stop you right there,” Steve cut in, raising one hand. “None of us are physicists.”

Sam shrugged. “I was following along just fine, but sure.”

Steve smiled sideways at him.

“Right.” Bruce nodded, clearly trying to figure out how to rephrase it in a way that these laymen would understand. “So a quantum system — an atom, a photon — has the capability of existing in multiple states, right?” he said like that was just a given. “All of which could result in different outcomes, statistically. The idea is that those systems can exists simultaneously in all possible states until they are observed by the outside world. So a cat that’s trapped in a box with a poison that will release depending on a random occurrence, would, until observed, exist as both living _and_ dead.”

“Why would you do that to a cat?” Sam asked as Bucky made a face.

Bruce shook his head. “You wouldn’t, but that’s not the point,” he explained. “I think — and this is just a preliminary hypothesis based on preliminary observations, but — I think that when Cap went back with the intention to stay, that timeline manifested itself here, for as long as it took for our time to process that reality through. But then,” he continued, turning to Steve as he got more and more excited, “when you changed your mind and decided to come back, you changed your future. With that choice, he changed the timeline so he never would have grown old to come here in the first place. Old Cap both existed, and does not exist.”

Sam and Steve nodded thoughtfully, at least understanding the gist of it as Bruce turned around and went to check something on the machine, but Bucky didn’t have much room in his head to process anything except that Steve was there and he was staying. He reached up and took Steve’s face in his hands, turning Steve back to lock wondering eyes with him.

It was like Steve read his mind. “I’m done losing you, Bucky,” he told him, squaring up with him, in that voice that would make anyone believe him. “I’m not gonna leave you ever again, and you better not leave me.”

Bucky laughed wetly. “I won’t,” he promised.

“I’m serious, pal,” Steve pressed. “We’re doing this, we’re _in_ this. Till the end of the line.”

Buck nodded. “Till the end of the line,” he agreed.

Steve’s hands were tight on his hips. “No more dying, no more leaving, no more walking away. Where you are, so am I, okay? This is it.”

“I swear.”

“Okay,” Steve said decidedly. “Good. I love you.”

“I love you, too, Steve,” Bucky sobbed, and then they were kissing again. Steve’s mouth was the only thing Bucky ever wanted for the rest of his life.

Eventually, though, they had to come up for air, and Steve looked over to the man on his other side. “And you, Sam,” he began.

“I like you as a friend,” Sam responded, but Steve ignored him.

“I’m here for you too, okay?” he said. “I’m not going anywhere, and you better not be either. And I meant it about the shield. It’s yours now.”

The smile tugging at Sam’s mouth was soft. “You sure?” he asked.

“I am.” Steve pulled Buck further into himself with his arm around Bucky’s shoulders, and held his other hand out to shake Sam’s. “I’m done with that life. I need to live my own, now, like Tony said.” He looked at them both. “With you guys. With my family. I love you both.”

Sam nodded. “I love you, man,” he responded. “Not in the same way Bucky does, but still.”

Bucky growled possessively. His arms were wrapped around Steve’s waist, his nose and forehead pressed against the side of Steve’s face.

Sam gave him an unimpressed look. “Man, you ain’t scary.”

But when Steve turned to Bucky, there was definitely arousal in his eyes. The coldness was absolutely gone, and Bucky had never felt so warm.

Steve’s expression softened as he smiled at Bucky, then reached out to pull Sam into his arms, too.

God, he was so glad to be home.

 

-::-::-::-

 

Steve pushes through his nerves to try to finish off the toast he made himself in an attempt at normalcy, and jumps when his phone lights up and vibrates on the coffee table. Sam’s name and picture appear on the screen, and Steve feels something similar to a stab to his gut.

He tries to tell himself that it’s not necessarily the worst thing. That maybe Sam and Buck are on their way home and Sam for some reason wanted to give him a heads up, or even that they might want to go to lunch after their meeting.

Or maybe they found the kid and need help getting him back. _Something_.

Just not what he’s scared it will be, _please_.

He answers the call. “Sam?”

“Steve.” Sam’s voice is haunted. Hollow. And it sends immediate chills through Steve’s entire body.

“What happened?” he asks at once. “Where is he, is he okay? Is he —?”

“He’s alive,” Sam assures him quickly. But then: “He’s hurt. They shot him.”

Steve is already putting on his shoes. “Where are you?” he asks shortly.

“NewYork-Presbyterian,” Sam says. “Lower Manhattan.”

Steve frowns. “Manhattan?” Why are they in Manhattan?

Sam lets out a short breath, and when he speaks he sounds almost panicked. “I didn’t want to take him too close to — Steve, they saw him, they saw his face. They know who he is.”

“ _Fuck!_ ” This is so bad, so really very bad.

“He’s in surgery,” Sam is telling him. “They won’t tell me anything else because I’m not family. I didn’t know what to do, I was losing him.”

If Steve gives himself a moment to actually think about any of this, he’s going to break down, and he can’t break down. He needs to be with Bucky.

“You did the right thing,” he tells Sam, trying to keep his voice even as he grabs his keys out of the bowl near the door. “I’ll be right there.”

“You gonna take a cab?” Sam asks him, and Steve shakes his head even though Sam can’t see him.

“It’ll be faster if I run.” And with that, he just hangs up and takes off at a sprint toward the Brooklyn Bridge.

It helps, in times like this, to be superhumanly fast. Steve doesn’t slow down until he gets to the hospital, just a few minutes after he left his house, and barges in through the sliding ER doors. He spots Sam right away, but makes a beeline for the receptionist, knowing Sam will be at his heels.

“I need to know where James Barnes is,” Steve commands as he walks up.

The only person not on the phone, a small redhead, nods, but keeps her eyes on her computer screen. “Are you family?” she asks as she types.

“I’m his husband. Steve Rogers.”

The redhead looks up at him at his name and does a full, wide-eyed double take.

“Of course, sir,” she says quickly, obviously flustered, “I’m so sorry. I didn’t recognize —”

“Where is my husband?” Steve interrupts as gently as he can while feeling totally helpless and panicked. “James Buchanan Rogers-Barnes.”

“One moment,” she says, snapping out of her alarm, and going dutifully back to her computer. She clicks around on the screen for a moment, and Steve is _so_ impatient, but he’s trying not to be rude. She’s doing what she can.

“Your husband is still in surgery, Captain Rogers,” the redhead tells him after a moment, looking up at him again. “If you would like to wait, the doctor will be out to see you as soon as the surgery is complete. It may be a few hours, though,” she warns.

“That’s fine,” Steve says right away, even though it’s not. “I’ll wait.” He needs to be with Bucky _right now_.

Sam follows him over to the waiting area, and they sit in chairs side by side. Neither of them speak. There doesn’t seem to be anything to say.

Until: “Shuri,” Steve says suddenly, breaking the stillness. “T’Challa. Do they know?”

“I’m on it.” Sam tells him, and immediately goes outside to make the phone call, leaving Steve in the waiting room.

The TV is playing some daytime talk show. The volume is low so Steve can’t hear it. He doesn’t know who the people on screen are. He thinks he has a vague memory of them talking about his wedding right after he and Bucky got married, but that could have been anyone, honestly. All of them. The concept of celebrity accompanying his mission to try to help people has always been foreign and strange to him, but since he retired and married his best friend, Steve seems to mostly come up on these shows in terms of gossip and human interest stories these days.

It’s surreal.

And now Sam is reappearing at his side.

“Shuri’s on her way,” Sam tells Steve, and he’s talking very fast. “She’s uptown with Pepper, they were working on designs for New Avengers Tower. They’re both coming, possibly Morgan too? That wasn’t clear. Shuri said she’ll call T’Challa and tell him. Said he’ll probably be on a plane in minutes.”

Steve nods and they fall into silence again. Sam is fidgety. Steve feels like he can’t move at all.

Just to break the goddamn silence, Steve asks, “Did you get eyes on the kid?”

Sam looks up at him, confused.

“On your mission,” Steve clarifies. “Did you find Simon?”

“Oh,” Sam responds, his face falling, which answers Steve’s question. “No. I didn’t see him.”

Steve doesn’t know how to answer that.

“If he was ever there, they’ve probably relocated him by now,” Sam adds softly.

He’s right. It’ll be much harder to find him again this time.

They fall into quiet again, neither really knowing what to say. They spend some nebulous amount of time like that, mostly silent but occasionally piping up for a moment or two. No conversation ever lasts more than a few seconds.

Steve wants to be with Bucky.

After a while — although Steve has entirely lost the ability to keep track of time, it seems, and he has no idea how long it actually is — the sliding doors open once again and familiar faces appear in the waiting room. It takes Steve a moment to recognize them as Pepper, with Morgan on her hip, and Shuri.

Shuri wraps her arms around Steve immediately, hugging him tight, and he returns her fervor. They don’t say anything. There’s nothing words can express better than holding onto each other for a moment in time.

When Shuri lets go, Pepper is reaching for him, having set Morgan down on her feet.

“I’m so sorry,” Pepper murmurs in his ear, which feels entirely unfair because she was robbed of even the chance to worry in a waiting room. But she’s hugging him just as tight as Shuri did, and then she tells him, “He’ll be all right, I know he will.”

Steve feels small arms wrap around his legs from the side and he separates from Pepper to look down at five-year-old Morgan, trying to act like he’s not about to start crying.

“Hey, Morgan,” he greets her, bending down to hug her back.

“Hi, Uncle Steve,” Morgan responds. She can clearly pick up on the somber tone of the adults, and her little eyebrows are knit together in concern.

Steve tries to give her a reassuring smile as he lifts her up into his arms.

“Is Uncle Bucky coming back soon?” Morgan asks him.

Pepper cuts in before Steve has a chance to break down over how pure her worry is. “Uncle Bucky’s gonna be fine,” she tells Morgan, and also Steve. “The doctors are fixing him up right now, and when they’re done, Uncle Steve’s gonna go see him and give him hugs.”

Morgan’s frown deepens. “Can I give him hugs, too?” she asks her mom.

Pepper nods. “After Uncle Steve does, when Uncle Bucky is feeling better, we can both go give him hugs, okay?”

“Okay,” Morgan responds sadly, but satisfied for now. Steve kisses her small cheek as words continue to fail him.

He sets her down again when Pepper points her to the toys in the corner of the waiting room and suggests she go find a book to read or a toy to play with.

After Morgan has gone off to do just that, Pepper turns back to Steve. “I didn’t have anyone nearby who could take care of her,” she tells him apologetically, “and I didn’t want to waste time looking, I needed to get Shuri and I here as quickly as possible.”

“Hey, don’t worry about it,” Steve assures her. “I’m glad to have her around. I just hope she isn’t stressed out by it all.”

Pepper’s eyes are heavy with sorrow and she sighs. “I’m constantly surprised at how strong she is,” she says. “How much she understands. She misses her dad,” Pepper adds as Steve turns to look back at Morgan, who’s now playing with the train set on a short table in the kids’ corner. “We never had the waiting room experience, though, so I don’t think that part is upsetting to her.”

Steve nods, looking back at Pepper and laying a hand on her arm as Pepper wipes the tears from her eyes. “We all miss him,” he tells her softly, because it’s true. “I wish you didn’t have to go through this with me —”

“I don’t have to,” Pepper interrupts him. “We love you, Steve, and we love Bucky. I’m here because I _want_ to be here.”

Steve face breaks open a little as he nods, swallowing hard.

“It’s different, anyway,” Pepper continues. “Bucky’s going to be fine.”

Steve is so grateful that Pepper is here.

 

Morgan ends up falling asleep in Steve’s lap after asking her mom to read her what seems like hundreds of books. Her little head simply nestled into his shoulder as she drifted off in the warmth of his arms, and Steve can actually feel his pulse calming down, his lungs taking in more air, just from the comfort of her warm little body against his chest. Shuri hasn’t been talking much, but she and Sam have kind of huddled together. Pepper is reading every magazine in the waiting room, but Steve knows it’s just a cover and that she’s really keeping a close eye on him to make sure he’s all right.

They’re some of the last people waiting at this point, so when, after hours of this agony, a doctor in scrubs walks in, Steve’s heart leaps.

Quietly, he passes a sleepy Morgan over to Pepper before standing up to meet the doctor, who makes a beeline for him.

“Captain Rogers,” she greets him a few feet away from the others, holding out her hand to shake his. “I’m Dr. McCreery, I’m your husband’s surgeon. First things first, Sergeant Barnes is going to be fine.”

The physical relief that washes over Steve in that moment is overwhelming. There’s a collective release of held breath behind him and it feels like a strong wind, blowing all the tension out of his body. _Bucky is going to be fine._

“It was a little touch-and-go at the beginning,” the doctor continues after the wave rolls through, “but he’s a fighter, your husband, he wasn’t about to let go.”

Steve wants to cry. Instead, he nods. “He’s doing okay?” he asks, ineloquently.

Dr. McCreery smiles. “Yes,” she assures him. “He was pretty badly hurt, if his body wasn’t capable of accelerated healing, it may have been different story. But he’s very lucky, and he did a great job in surgery. He’s in recovery now, and if he continues to heal at his current rate, he should be back up and at his normal routine in a week or so, if not sooner.”

“Can I see him now?” Steve asks eagerly.

“I’m afraid he won’t be awake for another few hours,” Dr. McCreery tells him.

“I don’t care,” Steve responds. He’s so, so relieved, but _he needs to be with Bucky_. “All due respect, but I’d like to see him now.”

Dr. McCreery nods once. “Of course, Captain Rogers,” she defers. “Follow me.”

Steve glances back at the small crowd of smiles behind him, but they all wave him off as though to say, _It’s fine, we’ll be here, go see him_. So Steve follows the doctor.

She leads him through a series of corridors, around a few corners, through the hospital maze, until finally she opens the door to one of the rooms and steps back to let Steve rush inside, where Bucky is asleep, hooked up to several machines, just lying there on his back on the hospital bed. His metal arm is sitting by itself on a table nearby.

He looks so small like this. So young. Steve wants nothing more than to crawl in bed with him and hold him until he feels better, like he’s just a sick kid.

Like Bucky used to do when Steve was a just sick kid.

“I’ll leave you two alone,” the doctor is saying behind him, but Steve barely hears. The door shuts.

Steve pulls the chair near the wall up next to Bucky’s bed, sitting down on it as he takes Bucky’s right hand in between both of his and brings it up to his mouth.

Alone, now, and with nothing to distract or stop him, Steve finally cries.

 

-::-::-::-

 

“Ow.”

Steve’s face jerked up from where he was doodling flowers on the palm of Bucky’s hand, eyes suddenly deep with concern.

“What?” he asked. “What happened? Did I hurt you?”

Bucky, still wincing, couldn’t help but chuckle at him. “No, dumbass,” he told Steve gently. “Your ballpoint pen did not hurt me. My back still hurts.”

Steve paused, trying to remember when Bucky hurt his back. He didn’t have a lot of chronic pain due to the whole accelerated healing thing, so it would have had to have been a recent event.

“When did you hurt your back?” he finally asked, giving up.

Bucky shot him a glance. “I got knocked on my ass during the fight in Wakanda,” he said like Steve should have remembered this. “I fell directly into a tree root, I thought you saw that.”

Steve blinked. “I did,” he replied, remembering now. This was the really, extra weird part of having Sam and Bucky back at last. “That was five years ago, though.”

Bucky rolled his eyes, shifting again to try to get into a comfortable position without dislodging his hand from Steve’s grasp.

“Well, it was a week ago according to _my_ body,” he mumbled.

Steve let out a little sigh and made a small, sad face at his boyfriend from his seat on the floor next to the sofa Bucky was lounging on. He dropped Bucky’s hand to crawl up over him on the couch, ignoring his grunts of protest until he was fully snuggled on top of him.

“What are you doing?” Bucky asked, voice slightly muffled by Steve’s face.

Steve shushed him. “Acupressure,” he responded.

Bucky paused. Then: “I don’t think this is what that means.”

Steve laughed, wrapping himself more tightly around his Bucky, really needing to be as close to him as physically possible. More, actually.

It was weird — really weird — that they were now on different timelines. That Steve had lived for so long _without_ Bucky. But he supposed it was his turn this time. They’d figure it out. They’d done it before. And they’d do it again.

Nothing would ever stop Steve from being as close to Bucky as he possibly could be.

 

-::-::-::-

 

When Bucky’s eyes finally flutter open to a foggy, aching consciousness, Steve is there.

Of course he is.

He’s always been there.

As the warmth of affection and gratitude wells up in Bucky, he reaches up with his one arm to card his fingers through the hair of the man he loves, asleep on his lap.

“Hey, Stevie,” his hoarse voice croaks out as Steve’s eyes blink open.

Steve instantly jerks up, all the way to his feet so he can lean over Bucky, pressing their foreheads together.

“Hey, pal,” he says quietly, the husk in his own voice betraying his emotions. “You scared me.”

Bucky squints up at Steve when Steve raises his head, a small, sad smile tugging at his mouth. “Sorry, buddy,” he says regretfully, then glances around at the machines connected to him. “What’s wrong with me?”

Steve frowns, one hand resting against Bucky’s neck, thumb absently stroking his jawline. “You got shot three times, Buck,” he says darkly.

“Oh, right,” Bucky replies dismissively. “That.”

Steve finally cracks a smile at that, if a half-hearted one. “You’re gonna be okay, though,” he assures Bucky, and, probably, himself. “Doctor said so.”

Bucky nods sleepily. “That’s good,” he says.

Steve is just watching him, his hand slipping down to Bucky’s heart. Bucky reaches up to cover Steve’s hand with his own. He brings Steve’s fingers up to his mouth to kiss them and Steve’s eyes close as he does. Steve’s thumb brushes across Bucky's lips. They’re both quiet. They don’t need words.

Eventually, Steve clears his throat and sniffs, blinking hard.

“What happened out there?” he asks, sitting down again, but not letting go of Bucky’s hand.

Bucky sighs deeply, looking up at the ceiling. “I lost it,” he admits softly. “I don’t know, I wasn’t in control.”

Steve frowns at him, covering Bucky’s hand with both of his, and pressing it to his own mouth this time. “Why?” he asks.

Bucky pauses a moment. This is, for some reason, really hard for him to say out loud. “They’re making more.”

Confused, Steve asks, “More?”

“More of me,” Bucky explains. “More Winter Soldiers.” Steve’s eyes widen as Bucky continues, “But they’re doing it better this time. And they —” He stops. He can’t look at Steve right now, so he stares off into nothing for a long moment. “They talked about me,” he says eventually, quieter. “They were upset they’d lost the first Asset.”

“Oh, Bucky.”

Bucky shrugs. “I think I snapped,” he says. “I was scared, and I was angry, and I wanted to kill every last one of them for doing what they did to me. Before they could do it to someone else _again_. And somewhere in there, the Winter Soldier was waiting for the chance to do just that. Even if it meant taking myself out in the process.”

Steve is quiet for a while. Bucky still can’t look at him. After a few tense moments, Steve whispers, “Maybe this was a bad idea.”

 

-::-::-::-

 

“Okay, get up,” Bucky grunted after a while.

Steve wasn’t sure how much time had passed or when he’d fallen asleep on top of his boyfriend, but he was so _cozy_ right now, and warm, and Bucky was really comfy.

“Why?” he ended up whining into Bucky’s shoulder.

The rumble of Bucky’s little laugh through his chest was the best thing ever.

“I want to get up,” Bucky explained painstakingly. “And I can’t do that when you’re lying on top of me.”

“But you’re _comfy_.”

“Stevie, get _up!_ ” Bucky coaxed, half annoyed, but laughing even harder.

Steve huffed and pushed himself up on his arms to look down at Bucky, eyes shining up at him. “Fine,” he mumbled reluctantly, and rolled off of his boyfriend.

After Bucky got up, he took Steve by the hand, pulled him in to be tenderly kissed, and then led him through Steve’s apartment, into the bedroom they’d been sharing.

There was stuff everywhere. Bucky hadn’t gone back to Wakanda since the second snap, so he was sharing Steve’s clothes, and neither of them had much energy to do laundry after everything, nor to maintain the tidiness of the apartment, so clothes and other personal items were just strewn around the room. But Bucky didn’t seem to care about that right now, and just flopped onto Steve’s side of the bed and beckoned for Steve to follow.

Steve climbed in to Bucky’s side and followed Bucky’s lead, tucking himself up into Bucky’s right side so his prosthetic-less love could wrap him up and play with his hair while Steve nuzzled into his neck.

It was happily quiet for a time. So much so that Steve was getting ready to fall back to sleep, until Bucky’s soft voice lit up the silence.

“I know this is weird,” Bucky was saying, “but I keep thinking recently about how you found me and saved me after Hydra took us captive.”

Steve glanced up at Bucky’s face, a little confused, but Bucky was gazing up at the ceiling. “During the War?”

Bucky nods. “I had no idea you were even in the Army,” he muses, a very small smile in his lips. “I’d heard about ‘Captain America’ but I didn’t know it was you. When they took us prisoner, I swear my first thought was that I was gonna die while you were back home, and you were never gonna know what happened to me.”

Steve frowned, deeply troubled by this idea. “You thought about me first?” he asked quietly. “Not your family?”

“I thought about my family, too,” Bucky clarified, “of course I did. My parents and my sisters, they would have been devastated. But you. . . . You wouldn’t have just taken it. You would have wanted to know why, what happened. It would have eaten you up. I didn’t want that to happen to you.” He paused and sighed. “I already loved you _way_ too much at that point, pal.”

“Not too much,” Steve mumbled, pressing his face back into Bucky’s neck and squeezing him, not knowing what else to say. “Never too much.”

“But then you found me,” Bucky continued, his soft smile reappearing. “I thought I was lost forever, and you found me. You came to get me when no one else would.” The smile deepens and Steve catches sight of Bucky’s dimples. “I remember when you walked up to me on that table. They’d been torturing me for. . .I don’t know, days? Weeks? Even then I didn’t know how long it had been. And they never asked me any questions, they just kept. . .well, now I know what they were doing, but at the time it just felt like they were killing me really slowly. Injections and that damn mind wiping machine. And I was lying there, doing what they’d always told us to do if we got captured. Name, rank, and serial number, over and over. And then I heard your voice.”

That smile again. Steve felt like he was going to start crying at this point, but he wanted to hear everything Bucky wanted to say.

“You know I thought I was dead?” Bucky asked him. “I thought I had finally slipped away, and I remember specifically that it was your voice that made me think I’d actually made it to Heaven somehow. I just thought that’s what Heaven sounded like. And _of course_ Heaven sounded like you, what else would it sound like?”

“Like me?”

Bucky nodded, still smiling up at the ceiling. “And then I saw your face, and I figured it must be true. I thought you must have been there, too.”

Steve’s frown deepened. “You thought I had died?” he asked, a little offended.

“Well you always had pneumonia,” Bucky shrugged dismissively, “it was a possibility.”

And that, finally, made Steve snort. Alleviated some of the deep pain in this story. Pain Bucky didn’t seem to register as such.

But Bucky wasn’t finished yet. “And then,” he said, “of course, I realized you were actually _there_ and I really saw you and you were fucking _huge_ and _hot_ and _my hero_.” He laughed, his eyes crinkling. “If I wasn’t already so fucked about you, I would have fallen in love on the spot.”

He stopped, then, still smiling thoughtfully. When Steve didn’t say anything, Bucky glanced down at him.

“Are you okay?” he asked suddenly, seeing Steve’s face. “Jesus, I’m sorry, is this a giant bummer of a story?”

“I mean, yeah,” Steve admitted, huffing a laugh. “But I’m glad you told it to me. I love you too, Buck. I loved you then, and I love you now. I’d do anything for you.”

“I know you would,” Bucky replied softly. “You have.”

“What made you start thinkin’ about this, pal?” Steve asked him.

Bucky shrugged again, one-shouldered. “It’s been a long week,” he answered like that wasn’t the biggest understatement of all time. “A lot has happened, and I thought. . .well, I thought for a while I was gonna finally lose you for good. But you came back for me. Made me think about the other times you did that for me.”

Steve pressed his lips against Bucky’s neck and squeezed him again. Then he whispered, “I didn’t realize you had all those memories back.”

Bucky shifted at that, pulling away just enough so he could look Steve deep in the eyes, his own brimming with a visible, tangible love.

“There _are_ parts of my life I still don’t remember clearly,” Bucky told Steve plainly. “Some things I probably don’t want to, and some I deeply wish I could.” And then he smiled gently once again, and said, “But I remember _everything_ about you.”

 

-::-::-::-

 

There hasn’t been this sort of tense silence between them since before they got married. Bucky isn’t quite sure what to do with it.

“If you ask me to,” he eventually says, a little reluctantly, “I’ll stop.”

Steve nods. “I know you will,” he whispers. “That’s why I’m not asking you to.”

Bucky turns to frown at his husband. “You’re not?”

“No.” Steve wets his lips and stands up over him again. “You told me you could do this. That you _wanted_ to do this. I’m here to support you, whatever you do. But. . .I think we need to regroup over some of this stuff.”

“Yeah, I know,” Bucky agrees.

Steve’s face is deadly serious when he says, “This can’t happen again, Buck. I can’t get another call from Sam saying you might not make it, okay? I know there’s always gonna be danger here, but I —” he cuts himself off and his face crumples as he tries and fails to articulate. “— _God_ , Bucky. I can’t — You _can’t_ —”

“I know,” Bucky interrupts soothingly, reaching up to gently pull Steve back down to him. “I know, baby, I’m so sorry.” Steve’s face falls softly to Bucky’s chest as he dissolves into quiet, racking sobs. Bucky holds him, comfortingly stroking his mussed hair and pressing tender kisses into it wherever he can reach. “I’m okay, pal,” he whispers as Steve cries, and Bucky knows the release of relief is the only thing that’s making it okay for him to let this out right now. All Bucky can do is hold him through it. “I’m not leaving you. I promised, didn’t I? It’s all right. I’m all right.”

 

Later, after Steve climbed into the hospital bed with Bucky, pressing kiss after desperate kiss into his mouth, after they fell asleep clinging to each other, Bucky wakes up to Steve drooling on his shoulder.

He can’t decide if it’s more gross or sweet, but Steve is so peaceful and more relaxed than Bucky’s sure he’s been all day, so Bucky doesn’t move him.

Until a very light knock on the door pulls Steve into wakefulness.

While Steve blinks and snorts blearily, the door opens a few inches and Shuri’s head pokes through the crack.

“Sorry to wake you,” she stage whispers, “do you mind if we come in?”

Bucky nods, smiling at her, as Steve sits up and sleepily asks, “We?”

His question is immediately answered as Shuri bursts through the door, followed, more delicately, by T’Challa.

Steve hasn’t even fully gotten off the bed when Shuri throw her arms around Bucky’s neck, careful to avoid his bandages.

“They should have let me fix you,” she mumbles protectively in Bucky’s ear as his arm slings around her and squeezes.

Bucky laughs softly. “I’m okay, little sister.”

Shuri only pulls away from him when T’Challa makes a comment about how she’s hogging their brother, and as she does, her embrace is quickly replaced by T’Challa’s.

“Wow, an actual king has come to grace my recovery room,” Bucky teases him. “I had no idea I was so important. What about Wakanda?”

T’Challa scoffs as he straightens up again, resting his hand on Bucky’s uninjured shoulder. “Wakanda was not shot three times,” he retorts, giving Bucky a look.

Bucky blushes a little at all the attention he’s receiving and gestures to his arm on the table. “Shuri, can you hand me my arm?”

Shuri jumps to get it for him, even installs it into his shoulder for him, as T’Challa looks like he’s about to start lecturing Bucky about being careful (like he’s one to talk), so Bucky cuts him off preemptively.

“I assume you guys got back here by leveraging your political advantage?” he asks, raising an eyebrow at them both as he rolls his shoulder and flexes his prosthetic hand.

“No,” T’Challa retorts, “we got back here because we are legally your siblings, White Wolf.”

“Oh, right,” Bucky replies, like he forgot. Shuri nudges him.

“What happened to the plan?” she demands. “It was such a good plan! You didn’t get shot in the plan!”

Bucky groans. “I don’t want to talk about it,” he whines, only half in jest. “My everything hurts, haven’t I suffered _enough?_ ”

“You had a _shield!_ ” Shuri cries, exasperated. “Why didn’t you _use it?!_ ”

“I —” Bucky stutters, also exasperated, and then points at her accusingly. “This isn’t fair! This is interrogation under duress.”

Steve lets out a mumbly laugh from behind T’Challa and steps forward to take Bucky’s hand in his. “Not to be the overprotective husband,” he begins, ignoring the identical disbelieving looks Shuri and T’Challa give him when he says that, “but maybe we should let Bucky rest for a bit before we start grilling him on the proper usage of shields.”

“ _We?_ ” Bucky asks him, narrowing his eyes at he looks up at Steve.

Steve glances down at him, smirking. Then back to T’Challa and Shuri, “If you guys want to keep him company in here, that’d be great. I need to go update everyone in the waiting room.”

“Wait, why don’t _I_ get a say in this?” Bucky demands as Steve bends down to kiss his forehead before he leaves. “I don’t need babysitters!” he yells after Steve, earning another smirk over Steve’s shoulder, at the same time Shuri calls out, “We’ll watch him for you!”

She turns back to Bucky, who’s pouting and glowering after Steve, and points right back at him. “You deserve this.”

 

Everyone feels a whole hell of a lot better after Bucky’s doctors clear him to go home. He spent the night (with Steve right there with him) under observation, but when Steve sends the concerned group chat a text announcing Bucky’s release from the hospital, the sheer amount of celebratory emojis he gets back say much more than those little images ever could.

Bucky, on the other hand, is restless. His injuries are still hurting him, so he can’t actually physically do much, but he spends most of his first day home lying shirtless on the couch downstairs, projecting the file Shuri made on their mission over his head, frowning deeply as goes over and over it.

Eventually, Steve stops him by bringing him a hot cup of coffee and shoving it in his hands, interrupting the projection, as he smushes his way onto the couch around his husband’s legs.

“What are you doing?” Bucky asks, perplexed by the sudden change.

Steve fixes him with a look. “What are _you_ doing?” he asks pointedly.

Bucky sighs heavily and glances at the Kimoyo Beads in his arm. “I have to figure this out,” he says quietly. “How we didn’t know any of this, how we couldn’t find Simon —”

“Sam is working on that right now,” Steve cuts him off gently before Bucky starts to spiral. “He’s in Manhattan with Shuri and T’Challa, they are literally doing this as we speak. Why can’t you let him do that while you heal? Wasn’t this the _point_ of having two Captains America?”

“I failed him, Steve,” Bucky mutters like a confession, and he still won’t meet Steve’s eyes. “I failed Simon, and I failed Rashida, and I failed every single one of those kids Hydra has taken and tortured and killed, and it’s _my_ fault —”

“Stop,” Steve cuts in, his voice deep and dangerous. Bucky finally looks up at him and Steve’s eyes are blazing. “This is not your fault,” he continues firmly, and he won’t let Bucky look away again. “Okay? It’s not. Say it.”

Bucky squeezes his eyes shut, and it looks like he’s waging war inside his head. “It’s —” he begins, then wets his lips and starts again. “It’s not my fault.”

It’s quiet, so quiet, but he says it. It’s a start.

“Good,” Steve praises him, reaching out to stroke his fingers softly against Bucky’s cheekbone. “Again.”

“It’s not my fault.” He doesn’t stumble that time. Better.

“Do you believe that?” Steve asks gently and Bucky laughs mirthlessly.

“Not yet,” he answers.

Steve nods. He would have been surprised if that wasn’t the response he got. “That’s all right. Keep saying it until you do, baby.”

Bucky says it again as Steve moves the coffee cups out of both of their hands and onto the table instead. And then again when Steve stretches out over him and buries kisses into the curves of his throat. Again while Steve’s fingers slip under the waistband of his sweatpants, and once more as Steve sits up again, pulling his sweatpants down to his knees and adjusting while Bucky pulls his legs up to assist the removal, settling in between Bucky’s legs only when his pants are on the floor.

“There you go,” Steve purrs, running his hands up and down Bucky’s bare stomach and chest, careful to avoid his injuries. “You’re doing so good, honey. You believe it yet?”

Bucky’s breathing has become shallow and hitched. This happens every time Steve’s hands are on him. He nods a little, wetting his lips again. “Starting to.”

“That’s good,” Steve breathes his approval. “You’re so good, doll,” he adds, ducking to nip at Buck’s earlobe. “You don’t always know it, but you’re so _good_.” He moves to Bucky’s other side to even the score. “Come on, sweetheart, tell me how good you are, let me hear you say it for me.”

Bucky inhales sharply as Steve’s teeth scrape at his throat. “I’m. . .I’m good,” he says shakily.

“You’re _so_ good,” Steve agrees, then bites down on Bucky’s collarbone. “Baby, you’re the best person I know. You’re kind —” he lays a kiss in between Bucky’s pecs, “— and you’re brave —” and one halfway down his stomach, “— and you’re so —” under his bellybutton, “— _so_ —” his pubic bone, “— good.”

And then Steve swallows Bucky whole.

“ _Fuck_ ,” Bucky soughs eloquently, reaching up over his head to grab onto the arm of the sofa for support. He can’t keep his hips from bucking up into Steve’s hot, wet, gorgeous mouth, those impossibly red lips wrapped around him so beautifully. “ _Shit_ , Steve!”

But Steve is a man on a mission. He is so determined to make Bucky — the love of his life, his husband, the reason Steve is on this earth — feel as good as Steve knows he is. This is so important. Bucky is the best person Steve has ever known and right now, as Bucky arches into Steve’s mouth and his eyes flutter shut as he lets out a soft, tender sound, Steve knows what Bucky needs from him. And he’ll be absolutely damned if he isn’t going to give Bucky every little bit of it.

 

-::-::-::-

 

A straw wrapper to the face was _not_ how Sam expected to be woken up, but honestly, with Natasha he should have expected it.

He opened one eye to her. “Can I help you?”

Natasha smirked at him. “I’m bored,” she told him frankly. “Do something entertaining.”

Sam rolled his eyes. It was almost easier back when it was just him and Steve because at least then when Steve wanted to sneak into Wakanda for some nookie, Sam could come too.

But _three_ fugitives going in and out of a sovereign nation every couple of weeks and hiding out for a few days with their fugitive buddy was _too high profile_ according to Steve “I want to see my boyfriend” Rogers. Now Sam and Nat weren’t allowed accompany him _every_ time he went in, and they were just there two weeks ago, so here they were. Lying low in Arba Minch, Ethiopia for the next couple of days until Steve’s guilt over not fighting terrorists to spend time brushing Bucky’s hair or whatever overpowered him and he brought the Quinjet back.

And yes, they had a decent place to stay here, and yes, Sam could have gone back there for his nap, but it had been so warm and the air smelled sweet and the caffeine from his coffee hadn’t kicked in yet, so yes, he fell asleep in his chair outside the little café that let them use their wifi without asking questions.

It had been such a nice nap, too.

“You want me to do a dance, or?” Sam asked Natasha in a deadpan, and she laughed.

It was nice when Natasha laughed. When they had first met, all of about three years ago now, the only way she had laughed in front of Sam was a short, smirking chuckle. It wasn’t until months later — while they were both helping Steve look for Bucky after the Winter Soldier had defected on Hydra and disappeared — on a hot night following a lead into Italy that turned out to be nothing, while sitting on a rooftop in Pescara, just the three of them, beers in hand, Sam had made some sarcastic quip in response to something earnest Steve had said, and Natasha had lost it. She was laughing so hard, bent over herself and wheezing, it made Steve and Sam laugh hard with her until all three of them had tears running down their faces. To this day, Sam couldn’t remember what they had been laughing about, but he remembered that night.

After that, Natasha stopped being reserved in her amusement in front of Sam. She laughed at most of his dry jokes these days, some more than others.

Sam liked it when Nat laughed.

Natasha took another sip through the straw of her giant iced coffee. “If you know any entertaining dances, by all means,” she told Sam, grinning.

Sam snorted and closed his eyes again, enjoying the light breeze that blew across his face in that moment. “Sorry,” he said, “I only know how to waltz.”

Nat’s lilting laugh rose around him again, and his smile grew.

“How long do you think till Steve’s back?” he asked. They’d started to do this every time he left them somewhere to visit Bucky. Both would pick a timeframe of his return, and they would bet a small amount of cash or to cover the other’s next drink or something like that. Nat was disconcertingly accurate most of the time.

She was silent a moment as she thought about it, then: “Four days. Evening.”

Sam opened his eyes again to look at her. “You’re betting on a time of day, now?”

Nat nodded, her eyes lit up with mischief.

“Do you know something I don’t?” Sam asked her, suspicious.

“I swear to you, I don’t.”

“Do I believe that?”

Nat stuck out her hand to him to shake. “You have my word,” she insisted and Sam relented, shaking her proffered hand.

“Fine,” he said. Then, “Four days is a lot. And with the lead we just got, I think Steve’ll want to pursue it.” He considered for a moment, and then nodded. “I’m gonna say two days. Morning.”

Nat’s smile stretched across her face and she leaned back in her chair. “All right,” she said, “if you say so.”

“What makes you think it’ll be long?”

Nat shrugged. “Steve _insisted_ on going right now and without us,” she explained. “I don’t think he’s just going for some quick dick, I think he’s feeling gooey and lovey and gross and wants to pretend he and Bucky are married and domestic.”

Sam frowned. “Hmm.”

“Also, it’s been about six months since Bucky came out of cryo, and you know how much of a sap Steve is.”

Sam narrowed his eyes at her. “You think he’s there for an anniversary.”

Nat nodded. “But if you think it’ll be sooner. . . .” She trailed off.

Sam knew she was baiting him. He really did. But Sam was, if he was honest, nothing if not stubborn. He nodded firmly. “I do. Next drink?” he offered

“Next five,” Nat countered, straw in her mouth again.

Sam stuck out his hand to her this time. “Deal,” he said, and they shook on it.

He was _deeply_ perturbed four days later, when Steve showed up at the restaurant where he and Nat were eating dinner, and silently handed her his credit card to open a tab.

 

-::-::-::-

 

“I don’t get it,” Sam says under his breath, watching the sand flow across the table in front of him in the form of Hydra agents. “How did we miss this?”

Shuri huffs out an annoyed sigh. “I _told_ you,” she says irritatedly as she types something into her computer here in her makeshift lab at the building that will eventually become New Avengers Tower, “my information was _right_ it just wasn’t _complete_. Your mission yesterday was supposed to be for reconnaissance, wasn’t it?”

“Shuri,” T’Challa calls a warning from his place at the sand table, “be nice.”

Sam shakes his head. “No, it’s okay,” he insists. “I’m sorry, Shuri, I wasn’t trying to blame you for this.”

They’re all on edge. Someone they all love got hurt on their watch yesterday.

Sam runs his hands over his hair. “We just gotta figure this out,” he says quietly, almost to himself. “Can you go back to the wide view of the building?” he asks T’Challa, who complies, and the sand takes a different shape. “Take the walls out?” The walls of the building disappear. Sam frowns. “Do we know they only had the mind wipe machine in that one room?”

T’Challa shakes his head. “It escaped our intelligence once,” he admits, “there could be more we can’t see.”

“Bucky said it sounded like they just had the one victim at the time,” Sam mutters, shaking his own head, “but that they’d been through others. Do we have any idea how many kids they’ve killed here?”

“I followed the lead you said his sister had,” Shuri answers, still focused on the computer. “I’ve found three other similar kidnappings so far, but the information has been scrubbed from a lot of the internet. There could be more. Shit!”

“Shuri,” T’Challa warns, almost like it’s an instinct of his, but Sam whips around to her.

Shuri finally spins around in her chair. “They’re gone,” she says bitterly. “I’ve got CCTV footage of Hydra abandoning the facility. If Simon was there, he’s gone now, too.”

Sam kicks the floor as T’Challa’s eyes close. It’s blown, it’s fucking over. It’ll take them ages to track them back down now that Hydra knows they’re onto them, and by then, Simon will surely be dead or worse.

Sam can’t face the idea of having to tell Bucky.

It was awful, watching him lose control like that. Sam was helpless to do anything as Bucky just walked into death’s arms, and when he finally did manage to get him out, Bucky was weak and fading. The flight to the hospital was heart-stopping, especially once Bucky fell unconscious. In the air like that, Sam didn’t know if Bucky was still breathing or if Sam’s closest friend had just died in his arms.

It was terrible.

Sam never wants to experience anything like that again. Not after Riley, not after Rhodey. Not ever again.

“ _Fuck_ ,” Sam mutters, allowing himself one more second of frustration before he takes action. “All right, enough. We need more help. Shuri, I need you to get in contact with Banner, Scott, Strange, Rhodey, Carol, Thor — the Guardians, fuck it, anyone who’s available. I need leads and I need them now, so anyone in this galaxy is going to hear from me. God, I wish Nat was here.”

The last sentence is let out like a prayer under his breath. Nat would know what to do. Nat would be able to snap her fingers and come up with a new lead, a new breadcrumb trail to follow. She would have smiled as she did it, knowing how good she was.

Nat deserved to come home.

As though following his train of thought, Shuri asks him in that moment, “Do you want me to get Barton, too, Cap?”

Sam lets out a breath. He hasn’t forgiven Clint yet for coming home instead of Nat. He can’t, not yet.

“Nah,” Sam tells her. “Get the others first. Barton is a last resort.”

If anyone asks, Sam will just say he didn’t want to tear Clint away from his family. His precious family, more important than anyone else’s.

Shuri gives Sam a look like she knows what he’s really doing, but she just nods and sends out the SOS.

Now they wait.

 

It’s still early when Bucky falls asleep in Steve’s arms as they watch TV in bed, but Steve will honestly die before he lets anyone wake him. Bucky is healing and exhausted and he deserves his rest.

He deserves the world. But for now, rest will suffice.

It takes a lot of finesse to slip his body out from under Bucky and replace it with the floppy plush dog Bucky likes to snuggle with when Steve is gone, but Steve has had a lot of practice doing this, both in the past year and in the time he spent visiting Bucky in Wakanda. Bucky falls asleep in about three seconds flat, and Steve rarely gets more than a few hours, so he’s gotten well used to silently sneaking out of bed without waking his love.

Of course, in the moment he’s slid his body off the mattress entirely, his phone lights up and buzzes with a text notification.

It almost blows it for him, but Bucky ends up just frowning and letting out a disgruntled little _mm_ before rolling over and going back to sleep.

Thank God.

Steve glances down at his phone, and then frowns himself at the message he received.

 

      **CAROL:**

      i’m in ur kitchen. want tea?

 

What the hell is Carol Danvers doing in his kitchen?

Steve pads down the stairs, barefoot and clad only in a pair of Bucky’s pajama pants, to the dark living room and a lit up kitchen.

And sure as hell, when he reaches the kitchen’s entry, Steve finds Carol at his stove, the kettle already on.

She turns over her shoulder when she hears him come up behind her and smiles.

“Hey, Rogers,” she greets him, pulling two mugs out of his mug cabinet.

“Hi, Danvers,” Steve answers, smirking as he crosses his arms and leans against the entry. “What are you doing here?”

Carol drops tea bags into each of the mugs as she says, “I got your text.”

That takes Steve aback. “You did?” He included her in the group message he had sent out about Bucky being hurt but okay, but he honestly hadn’t expected her to get it for a while. Carol can be hard to track down.

Still busied with making tea, Carol snorts. “What, you think I can program a pager to reach me but not a cell phone? Take this.”

Steve automatically reaches out to take what she’s passing him. The sugar bowl.

The kettle starts to whistle and Carol quickly shuts it off as Steve says dumbly, “I didn’t even know you were in this solar system.”

“I wasn’t,” Carol tells him, pouring the boiling water into the mugs. “That’s why it took me a minute to get here. Milk?”

“Please. And how did you get into my house?”

Carol just grins, pouring the milk and handing it to Steve to put back in the fridge. “I’ll let you add your own sugar,” she says, picking up her mug and walking out to the living room, leaving Steve in the kitchen.

Steve laughs, shaking his head, and goes to put the milk back.

When he’s sugared his tea to his liking, Steve joins Carol on the couch, where she’s already kicked off her shoes and tucked her feet under herself.

She finishes the sip she’s delicately taking before she asks him how he’s feeling.

Steve shrugs. “I’m worried about him.”

Carol nods. “Makes sense,” she says. “You love him, of course you’re worried. Where is he, how’s he doing?”

“He’s asleep,” Steve answers, shifting his hands around his warm mug of tea. It’s comforting, Carol made the right call making it. “He’s okay, just bruised and. . .well, he got shot. So.”

Carol makes a sympathetic face at the way Steve just sort of trails off. “I was happy to hear he came home today,” she tells him. “Hospitals aren’t fun places to be.”

“No, they are not,” Steve agrees, then tastes his tea. It’s nice.

Carol shifts a little to get more comfortable. As it turns out, she and Steve have a lot in common. They discovered this after Tony’s funeral when a bunch of them had gone out to get a drink in honor of his memory. Thor had brought that Asgardian booze that’s actually strong enough for Steve to get drunk on specifically for Steve, which he had been deeply grateful for, and when they were a few in, and Rhodey and Happy were telling stories about Tony that had everyone cracking up, Carol and Steve had got to talking, just about themselves for the first time in those five years of working together, and realized how similar they were. They formed a special, drunken bond that night, and it hasn’t been broken since.

Carol isn’t “in town” (as she calls being on Earth) very often, but most of the time when she is, she’ll drop in on Steve and Bucky and Sam and they’ll all trade stories and hopes and dreams for a night before Carol is off again to save some other world. The last year, she’s told Steve, she’s been trying to spend a lot more time in town, and less time off-world. Steve knows it’s because Maria and Monica were both taken in the Snap. That Carol feels guilty that she wasn’t there, even though she didn’t know about it and couldn’t have done anything to help them even if she was. That the only thing any of them value anymore is time.

Still, it’s hard for Carol to slow down or rest. Especially when there are still so many people who need help.

Steve can relate.

“How’s retirement going?” Carol asks, as though on cue.

Steve barks out a short, sardonic laugh. “It’s like hell,” he says frankly. “I feel purposeless. Honestly, I don’t think I’d still be doing it if not for Buck.”

Carol makes a kind of smiley confused face. “What does that mean?”

“It’s just —” Steve struggles to explain. “When all of _this_ started,” he gestures at himself, his post-serum body, “it was about helping people. . . ,” Steve pauses slightly, then admits, “but I also had a whole hell of a lot to prove. Bucky was the only one who saw that in me. Everyone else bought into my story that it was all about altruism. And back then, Buck was the one keeping us alive, you know? He worked so hard when I was sick all the time, he kept us both fed.” Steve laughs gently. “I think he would have happily been a kept man now if he’d stayed that man,” he says fondly. Then wets his lips. “But then the war, and his captivity and torture, and meanwhile I’m in the ice and when I came back I still just felt like I had something to prove. Something to live up to. So now I feel like we’ve switched roles.”

Carol frowns, listening to him. “How so?” she asks.

Steve sighs. “After the second snap — the ‘blip’ or whatever — when I had Sam and Bucky back finally, all I wanted was time with them,” he says softly. “Especially Bucky. We’ve never had _time_ , me and him. Now we have the rest of our lives, but I’m still scared something’s gonna come in and rip him away from me.”

Carol nods. “Sure.”

“And you know I stopped because I couldn’t bear to see that worry in his eyes anymore,” Steve continues. It feels like Carol’s understanding has burst forth the dam inside him, and now all of his feelings are just flowing out. “It was _all the time_ , like he thought he was gonna lose me any second. And it’s worth it, all the restlessness and feeling useless — it _is —_ just to see him free of that. But now I think I’ve got it all over my face when I look at him.”

Carol thinks for a moment, weighing everything Steve has said, something Steve so appreciates about her, before she says, “I don’t think he blames you for being worried about him.”

“No,” Steve agrees, “it’s just. . . . He always knew I had something to prove, and now that I don’t, I think he does.”

“Steve, you don’t know what it’s like for him,” Carol tells him bluntly and Steve starts nodding.

“I know —” he begins, but Carol cuts him off.

“No, I mean, you _understand_ , but you’ve never felt it,” she tells him fervently. She’s got a lot in common with Bucky, too. “You’ve never woken up to realize the people you’ve been trusting, who have kept you on their track for years, have been making you do _horrible_ things in their name. It’s not something you forgive yourself for easily.” She takes a breath and says, “I’ve been making up for it for almost thirty years, and Bucky went through a lot worse than I did.”

Steve’s frown deepens. He falls into silence, holding tightly to his mug. He hasn’t felt that, Carol’s right. Bucky was a peaceful kid who was just trying to keep Steve safe and alive when a war broke out. And Steve was so obsessed with his dumb, romanticized version of war, of what it meant to do the right thing, but Bucky never seemed to want it the way Steve did. And then he went off and he fought in trenches and watched his friends get blown up and shot and killed around him, watched grown men and young boys shit themselves as they died, in a way Steve never really had to. And Steve knew Bucky was ready to die for him on that train. Knew it in the resolution he saw on Bucky’s face when he finally got that car door open and tossed Bucky that gun. It still haunts him, that look on Bucky’s face. Terrified and resigned. And Steve has seen that look since. He hates that look.

Bucky never deserved any of this. He didn’t deserve Steve’s blind, wistful selfishness the night before he went off to war — clearly terrified, Steve can see now in hindsight. He didn’t deserve to spend years covered in mud and blood and shit, hounded by sirens and explosions and gunfire. He sure as fucking hell didn’t deserve to fall thousands of feet into a ravine and to be left there alone, bleeding and dying, just to be taken prisoner and tortured and manipulated by the men he fought so hard against for so long.

He didn’t deserve decades of being trapped in his own mind, helpless to stop the cruelty his own hands inflicted.

He doesn’t deserve the guilt and worthlessness he still faces because of it.

Steve’s face must betray all of this, because Carol uncrosses her legs to nudge him with one bare foot and bring his attention back to her. Back to now.

“You know,” she says when Steve meets her eyes again, “Monica wants to be a hero.”

Steve gives her a questioning, surprised look.

“She hasn’t told her mom yet,” Carol continues. “She only told me recently. And obviously I’m terrified,” she says with a sort of incredulous laugh. “But, like, that’s my kid, you know? I helped raise that girl from when she was a baby. How can I tell her she can’t do what I do?” Carol’s smile becomes unspeakably soft as she says, “She can do anything. And I believe that more than I believe in anything else. There's never going to be a part of me that isn’t scared shitless over her because I love her, but how could I be mad that she wants to change the world? That she wants to be like me?”

“God,” Steve breathes. “Why can’t the people we love just stay safe?” he asks with a short, breathy laugh. “Why do they gotta keep trying to save the world?”

Carol laughs loudly. “I wish we could just wrap them up in blankets and make them stay put,” she agrees. “But you know as well as I do that anything could happen at any moment. The entire universe learned that, didn’t we? There's no point in getting paralyzed with fear over it. We’re not much use to them like that.”

Steve snorts. “Easy for you to say,” he says, going to take another sip of tea, and Carol laughs again.

It looks like she’s about to say something else when they both hear keys rattling at the door and a moment later, Sam walks in.

“Hey,” Steve greets him over the back of the couch. “You guys were working for a long time.”

“Yeah,” Sam agrees, dropping his keys in the key dish. “Had a lot of work to do. Hey, Carol.”

“Hi, Sam,” Carol waves to him. “I got your message, I figured I’d probably see you here if you want to talk about it tonight.”

“Message?” Steve asks, looking between them. “Did you find any leads?”

“Not yet,” Sam tells him as he circles the couch to sit on the armchair. Then, to Carol: “Were you coming here anyway? Did I miss the memo?”

“I was a surprise,” Carol says proudly as she shifts so she’s turned to both Steve and Sam. “Shuri sent out a message from Sam,” Carol explains to Steve. “I’m assuming to more than just me?” she asks Sam, who nods in confirmation, then turns back to Steve. “It was pretty vague, just asking for back up. Sam, I’m assuming you can give me details in person?” Sam nods again, looking tired. “You want tea first?” Carol asks.

Sam sighs. “Somethin’ stronger?” he asks.

Carol grins and claps her hands together. “Now we’re cookin’ with gas!” she exclaims, jumping up as Steve busts out laughing.

“I haven’t heard that phrase in _years_ ,” he says, standing up and following Carol back into the kitchen.

Carol is searching through his cupboards. “Where the fuck is your booze — aha!” she yells as she finds it, grabbing a bottle of whiskey and holding it aloft in triumph.

Steve chuckles fondly as he goes for the tumblers and shushes Carol gently. “Bucky’s asleep,” he reminds her and she mouths _sorry!_ at him.

“There’s a better one in there,” Steve adds, taking the bottle of Glenfiddich 12 off the counter where Carol put it down and digging through the cupboard for the good scotch.

“Well,” Carol says as he pulls out the one he was looking for, “I didn’t think you _wanted_ to break out the 18-year Macallan for a regular Wednesday night.”

“It’s not a regular Wednesday night,” Steve protests, “we have a _guest_.” He nudges her while handing her the scotch.

Carol rolls her eyes, but happily accepts the Macallan and starts pouring three glasses.

“Woah, there’s a lady in here,” a groggy voice croaks behind them, and Steve and Carol turn to see Bucky, barefoot in PJs with his hair all rumpled, rubbing at one eye and smiling at Carol.

“Hey, Buck!” Carol exclaims, crossing to hug him gently. “How you doing?”

Bucky hugs her back with his one arm and says, “Oh, I’m doing fine. A little worn and torn, but not bad.”

Carol smirks at him. “So I heard.”

“What are you doing here?” Bucky asks her jovially. “I thought you were in a galaxy far, far away?”

“Yeah, your husband told me you went and got yourself hurt,” Carol retorts and Bucky groans, embarrassed. “I just wanted to check in and make sure you were still in one piece.”

“Two pieces, technically,” Bucky answers, gesturing at his prosthetic shoulder, currently devoid of arm, and Carol laughs.

“You want fancy scotch?” she asks him.

“Please.”

Steve winces at Bucky as Carol goes to pour another glass. “Sorry,” he says softly, “did we wake you up?”

“No,” Bucky assures him, tucking himself into Steve’s arms. But then Steve gives him a look and he caves. “Yeah, okay, a little. But I heard laughing, which was nice, and I wanted to see what the fun was.”

Steve smiles and kisses Bucky’s forehead.

“Boys,” Carol calls to them, indicating the two glasses on the counter as she carries the other two out to the living room for her and Sam.

“Why is it so dark in here?” Bucky asks as they follow, going to turn on the tall lamp near the sofa while Steve carries their drinks out. Talia appears from the shadows to pad behind him like she always does, coming out of nowhere to follow Bucky anywhere.

Steve shrugs. “We forgot to turn any lights on.”

“You guys are impossible,” Bucky says, squinting at him and Carol. “Ow,” he hisses as he tries to sit down, causing Steve to rush to his side to help. “I’m okay, honey,” he tells Steve softly, the hypocoristic slipping out easily, even in front of other people, in his sleepiness.

But Steve still helps him sit, then sits next to him and crowds him with affection as Talia jumps up on Bucky’s lap and settles down.

Meanwhile, Sam takes a rather large sip of his glass of fancy scotch and Carol waits for him to be done before asking, “So what’s with this SOS?”

Sam takes a deep breath. “How much do you know about what’s going on here already? How Buck got hurt?”

“Almost nothing,” Carol replies as Bucky gently smushes Talia’s face and kisses her little nose. “Fill me in.”

While Sam starts explaining the last few days to Carol, and everything about Hydra, Simon, Rashida, and Bucky, Steve reaches up to tenderly brush Bucky’s hair away from his face, running his fingers all the way through Bucky’s soft hair. Bucky hums, echoing Talia’s loud, rumbling purrs as he softly scratches her head. Steve pulls at Bucky and Bucky comes to him without hesitation, tucking his head into the curve of Steve’s neck and humming happily again when Steve presses a kiss into his hair.

All right, so it might be a _little_ nice, having Steve dote over him like this.

Although, frankly, Steve would do this all the time every day if Bucky let him.

Bucky closes his eyes, content, as he listens to the others talk, warm and comforted against his sweet husband’s strong body. Images begin to swim in and out of his mind, melding with the voices of his friends in a way that makes enough groggy sense not to question it. Soon, they become clearer, and develop their own story, until something flashes into Bucky’s mind like ice water.

A memory.

He’s recovered this one before, but it doesn’t make sense. Has never quite made sense. Something is off, but he doesn’t know what.

It’s a puzzle piece that won’t fit.

He’s training the other Winter Soldiers, back when they were new. It’s before the serum, before they became what they ended up being. They were good when they came to him, and he made them better, but this had to have been early on, because the one he’s sparring with is struggling.

He’s been instructed not to go easy on them. Told to kill them if he must, if they don’t measure up to their requirements. But he doesn’t want to.

Bucky can’t ever remember another time while he was training the Winter Soldiers when he didn’t want to follow through on his orders. This one memory sticks out for that, at least. He didn’t want to kill this one.

It’s definitely one of the women. He doesn’t remember her face at all, and in his memory it’s like he can’t look at her face. It’s like he tries, but he can only focus just over her shoulder. Just over her head. Her face exists only in the corner of his eye.

And her body keeps changing. He must be remembering more than one of the women because her fighting style isn’t consistent enough to make sense. He’s much better than she is, and he could take her down if he could make himself, and every time he thinks about it, her style completely changes. It’s all the same technique, sure, the same training, but the style keeps switching around in a way that one single person just does not have the capability to do. Her center of gravity, the way her muscles have grown inside her body, her specific height and weight, it all changes.

And she’s small, so small.

Too small.

Like a child. . . .

“— Bucky —”

The sound of his own name slices through Bucky’s half-dream, yanking him hard enough to release the pull of dreaming and bring him crashing out of the shadowy realm between sleep and wakefulness. The memory — if that’s what it was — the details, fade as quickly as the time is takes for his eyes to open.

All at once, it’s lost.

“Buck?” Steve is asking, ducking his head to meet Bucky’s bleary eyes. “You fall asleep again?”

Bucky sniffs, trying to capture the fleeting images in his mind, but they’re already gone, like water through his fingers. “Yeah,” he grunts. “I guess so. Sorry, Carol.”

Carol shakes her head and reaches for him to hug him again. “Don't worry about it, Buck,” she assures him with a squeeze. “Get some sleep, you need it. I’ll come visit again soon.”

“You’re not staying over?” Steve asks as he stands, pulling Bucky up off the couch with him. “We have no shortage of guest rooms.”

Carol shakes her head again. “Gotta get back to Louisiana when I’m done talking with Sam,” she explains. “Wife’ll be mad if I don’t come home.”

Bucky smiles. “Tell Maria we said hi?”

“‘Course,” Carol agrees, standing to hug Steve goodbye, too. “You boys should come visit us, all three of you. She’d love to see you all.”

“Sounds like a plan,” Steve replies, and Bucky nods his agreement, reaching out to hold on to Steve’s arm for balance. He’s really tired. “I’ll text you about it. Come on, baby,” Steve then says to Buck. “Let’s get you back to bed.”

“You, too,” Bucky mumbles low at him, rubbing at his eyes like a kid before returning his hand to wrap around Steve’s crooked elbow while Steve guides him to the stairs, Talia trotting along in front of them. “Want you, too.”

“Okay,” Steve relents, letting out a fond chuckle, “I’ll come to bed, too.”

Appeased, Bucky lets Steve bring him carefully up the stairs and into their room, and drop Bucky off on his side of the bed before he circles around to climb in with him and Talia, who is already curled up at Bucky’s feet.

“Are you gonna brush your teeth?” Bucky asks Steve, who laughs.

“Fine, all right,” Steve relents, climbing back out of bed to head into the en suite and brush his dumb teeth.

When he comes back out a few minutes later, freshly brushed and face washed, Bucky is staring at his own hands, a thoughtful frown on his face.

“Buck?” Steve calls to him, slipping under the covers next to him, and Bucky looks up to meet his eyes attentively. “Are you okay, sweetheart?”

“Yeah, yeah,” Bucky assures him, shaking his head. “It’s nothing really, I was just. . .remembering something.”

Steve raises his eyebrows. “Something new?” he asks. It’s been happening less frequently since Wakanda, but there are still a lot of details in Bucky’s life that he doesn’t remember, and sometimes things will come to him seemingly out of the blue.

“No,” Bucky answers Steve’s question, but then makes a face like that’s not quite right. “Not really, anyway. It’s kind of a weird one, it doesn’t really fit.”

Steve doesn’t say anything, but he’s doing his Listening Intently Eyebrows, so Bucky keeps going.

“It’s just too vague,” he tries to explain, “I don’t remember enough to place it. I think there were more details this time, but. . .it’s gone now, I can’t catch it.”

Steve frowns sympathetically. He knows how frustrating this is for Bucky.  “Do you want me to take you to therapy tomorrow?” he offers, reaching out to brush his fingers tenderly across Bucky’s jawline. “I could wait in that coffee shop on the corner, bring you a latte when you get out.”

“I’m not going to therapy tomorrow,” Bucky says casually, but Steve suddenly gives him a really alarmed expression.

“What?” he gasps, which is an overreaction for sure.

Bucky frowns at him like he’s lost it. “She’s out of town this week, remember?” he says. “Jeez, you give yourself whiplash there?”

Steve blinks like he startled _himself_ , and mutters, “Sorry, I — Yeah, I remember you telling me now. Good week for your therapist to be out of town, huh?”

Bucky shrugs. It’s okay. “I’ve been texting her,” he tells Steve, scooting down in bed. “It’s all right.”

Steve frowns again, but doesn’t speak until he’s scooted down with Bucky and has rolled over onto his side and slipped an arm over Bucky’s belly. “Do you want to see mine on Friday?” he asks, fisting his fingers in Bucky’s oversized tank top.

Which makes Bucky laugh, thank the lord. “That’s not how this works, and you know that,” he tells Steve, scrunching his face at him. “Go to your own appointments.”

Still, as Steve giggles in response, happy just to make Bucky laugh, Buck’s face drops a little and he suddenly goes introspective.

Steve taps him on his belly, where Steve’s fingers slipped under Bucky’s shirt and have been stroking small circles into the softness of his skin. “What’s wrong, babe?”

Bucky meets his eyes again and makes a face. Shakes his head. “It’s stupid,” he says dismissively, but rolls onto his side to be face to face with his husband now.

“If it bothers you, it’s not stupid,” Steve says frankly. He’s said the same many times before.

But Bucky snorts mirthlessly. “No,” he says, “it’s definitely stupid.”

Steve’s eyebrows knit together. “Come on, honey, what is it?” he breathes into the inches between them, sliding his hand up to run his fingers over Bucky’s short beard. “Tell me?”

Bucky sighs and rolls his eyes, but wets his lips to speak. He won’t look Steve directly in the eye, opting instead for a spot over his shoulder, as he speaks. “Yesterday, when I was in that closet, hiding from those Hydra assholes,” he begins slowly, embarrassed, “they were talking about me. And they were saying that I. . .had problems, I guess, as the ‘Asset.’ They called me ‘unweildy’, and it’s stupid, and I know it’s stupid, but it’s bugging me.”

“It’s bugging you that they criticized your performance as the Winter Soldier?” Steve asks, trying to understand.

Bucky rolls his eyes again mightily and lets out a loud huff of annoyance, but nods.

Steve almost laughs. “Doll, you realize you’re upset because people who used to enslave you are mad that you weren’t an obedient enough slave to them?”

“Yeah, I _know_.”

“Baby,” Steve says gently, gripping the back of his beautiful love’s stupid head and trying to get him to look him in the eyes again. “You were ‘unwieldy’ because you fought back. You were too strong for them to control. They had to put you back in cryo between missions because if they left you out, you would overcome their control over your mind and fight them back again and again, and you’d _win._ For seventy years! And then you did win, once and for all, and you _left_. And you worked so hard and you got yourself back, baby, don’t you see? They’re mad because you beat them. Because you were always going to beat them. Because you are the strongest person I’ve _ever_ known, and they knew that.”

Bucky sighs again, but this time it sounds more grounding than frustrated. He nods a little, but it seems like he's trying to convince himself to believe Steve.

“Anyway,” Steve continues, “from what you told me, you killed those guys easily, so fuck ‘em.”

Bucky snorts, but turns his face into his pillow and says, “I don’t want to be a killer anymore, Steve.”

“I know,” Steve says, running his thumb over Bucky’s jawline. “But you’re not. They were going to kill you, you knew that. They were armed and you were in combat. There’s a difference.”

“Yeah,” Bucky says, but it’s still reluctant. “I know.”

“Bucky, look at me,” Steve orders, and Bucky does. “You are a good man. You’re a good person. I know it’s hard for you to believe me when I say that, but you trust me, don’t you?”

“Yes,” Bucky says immediately, firmly, conviction lighting up his eyes, just like it always has.

“Then trust me when I say this,” Steve tells him, gazing as intently as he can into stormy blue eyes. “You are so good. And I love you so much, Bucky.”

Bucky’s eyes are shining now as he tries to hold back tears. “I love you, too, Steve,” he whispers, and Steve circles his arms around him to pull Bucky into his embrace and just hold him as tight as he can.

 

Several days go by in relative peace. _Relative_ because they have no leads, and they continue to have no leads, and none of them will be truly peaceful while they know Hydra is getting away with torturing kids as they sit around and twiddle their thumbs. But Bucky is healing. And that’s something.

Maybe soon Steve will allow him to exert any physical effort whatsoever. Wouldn’t that be nice.

Although, Bucky has to admit to himself, spending the afternoon in the sun-dappled backyard of the Brooklyn brownstone where he lives with his husband and his best friend, watching his very loved goats use each other as trampolines while Talia sunbathes nearby, listening to the soft music piping through the open door from his record player inside, lit cigarette between his metal fingers — well, it’s not the worst way to live, is it?

Ome is curled up in Bucky’s lap where he’s sitting cross-legged around her on the grass, leaning back against the short brick wall that separates the patio from the rest of the yard. Ome is more low-key than the other three, almost always preferring cuddles and head scritches to showing off her jumping skills the way Mbini and Ange like to do when they know Bucky is watching them. T’Kambe is more food-driven, and would happily be very fat if Bucky let him be. When he’s not eating, he’s pretending to be more noble and restrained than his goat siblings, but deep down he’s a goober.

Bucky loves these dumb goats.

He can hear Sam come in. Not that Sam is particularly stealthy — at least not to someone whose survival was dependent on his ability to hear other people coming for seventy years of his life — but one benefit of living with two other war veterans is that they all know what it’s like to be unexpectedly snuck up on. Sam’s career in counseling gives them a certain advantage for PTSD-proofing the house, a factor which Bucky has benefitted from probably the most — although Steve’s flashbacks can get rough.

Nonetheless, Sam makes enough noise coming home and making his way through the house — enough Sam-specific noice at that, including singing along to the album of 1930s music Bucky’s got on the record player — that Bucky doesn’t even feel the need to open his eyes or tilt his head away from the sun, shining warm on his face, as Sam walks up behind him. Ome gently head-butts his palm to encourage him to keep petting her.

“Hey, man,” Sam greets him as he approaches, “you got a minute?”

Bucky sighs contentedly, half-opening his eyes. “Well,” he begins, “according to my doting husband, I’m not allowed to do. . . ,” he pauses and calculates, “ _anything_ until I’m fully healed, so technically I have many hundreds of minutes. I guess you can have one or two. Why, what’s up?” Bucky finally turns his head to look up at Sam, who drags one of the outdoor chairs away from the table they have out here for barbecues and into the grass next to where Bucky is.

“Something kinda weird just happened to me,” Sam admits as he sits down, and Bucky sits a little straighter, frowning in concern.

“Weird how?” he asks, raising his cigarette to his lips and inhaling thoughtfully.

Sam takes a breath. “Okay, just hear me out, all right?”

Bucky’s eyebrows scrunch even closer together. “Sam, what is it?” he asks, his voice low and serious.

“I was in Shuri’s lab, right?” Sam starts and Bucky nods him on. “She’d left to go get coffee for us both, but she’d linked my laptop to her computer so I could monitor the scan she had going trying to find Hydra.”

“Okay,” Bucky says slowly, waiting for the pin to drop, and he takes another drag on his cigarette.

“Well,” Sam continues, also slowly, “while it was scanning, I suddenly got a notification pop up on my laptop. It was some instant messaging program I didn’t even know I had installed.”

Bucky’s ears perk up. That sounds familiar to him.

“I don’t know who it was on the other end, but they sent an attachment. All of Shuri’s virus-blocking software said it was okay, so I made the decision to open it. It was blueprints to a construction zone near Hudson Yards.”

“Was there a message with it?” Bucky asks, and Sam nods.

“Just a few words,” he confirms. “‘Looks like you missed a spot.’”

Bucky’s frown somehow deepens even further.

“What is it, man?” Sam asks. “You know who it was?”

Bucky shakes his head. He doesn’t. It doesn’t make sense.

“What was that program called?” he asks instead.

Sam shrugs. “I don’t know, it wasn’t in English.”

It’s a hot day, but Bucky feels a chill. “What language was it in?”

Sam glances away for a moment, like he doesn’t want to say. Then: “I’m not sure, but it was Cyrillic. It looked like Russian to me.”

Shit. _Shit shit shit_.

It doesn’t make _sense_.

“Can I see it?” Bucky asks carefully. He’ll be able to read it even if he doesn’t really want to.

Sam shakes his head. “I left my laptop with Shuri so she could do whatever she needs to to make sure it’s legit. It’s already looking like it could be the biggest tip we’ve had since they moved out.”

Both of them are quiet for a moment. Bucky’s in his own head, and he knows Sam is giving him a minute. But sooner than he’s ready, Sam is asking him, “Does that sound familiar to you?”

Bucky takes a deep breath and nods. “Yeah,” he breathes, and his voice comes out quieter than he was expecting. He clears his throat. “Yeah, they used something like that while they had me. Hydra operatives used it to communicate with each other. And with me. And —” he pauses. He’s not sure if he should say this part. “— well, they would teach it in. . .training programs.” In Hydra. In Leviathan. In the Red Room.

Sam seems to know what he’s saying, and they both just stare at each other for a moment. Bucky’s cigarette burns itself out as it reaches his vibranium fingers. Ome stands up and walks away.

“Okay, so are you saying what I’m saying?” Sam asks after a while.

Bucky’s eyes narrow. “Depends on what you’re saying,” he says.

“You really gonna make me say it?”

“I don’t know what you’re trying to say unless you say it.”

Sam raises a hand. _Enough_. “It just seems like it’s from —” He stops.

Natasha.

That’s who it seems like it’s from.

Natasha, who would know how to use secret Russian technology. Who would do it without being traceable. Who would singlehandedly find a Hydra base that no one else could and drop the information in a friend’s lap. Who would tease them while she did. _Looks like you missed a spot_.

“It’s not her,” Bucky finally whispers, but he’s sure, and Sam’s eyes close, but he nods. “She’s gone, Sam, it can’t be her.”

“Yeah, I — I know.”

Bucky fishes in his pocket and pulls out his mostly-empty pack of smokes and a lighter. Takes a second to light another cigarette and breathe it in, exhaling a satisfying cloud of smoke before speaking again. “Could be someone trying to make us think it’s her.”

“I don’t wanna believe that,” Sam says quietly, “but it does seem like that’s the most plausible answer, doesn’t it?”

Bucky nods.

He wishes it was her, too.

“JAMES BUCHANAN ROGERS-BARNES!”

Bucky’s full name, shouted by the person he loves most in all of time and space, cuts sharply through the stillness of their grief and Bucky jumps about a foot into the air as he curses _oh shit!_ and tries to hide the cigarette in his hand. Steve doesn’t like it when he smokes.

Ever the righteous warrior, Steve stalks out into the backyard like an angry toddler and stands over Bucky with his fists on his hips. “Are you _smoking?!_ ” he demands. It’s remarkable how cartoonish he can be, really.

Bucky squints up at him and tries to judge exactly how much he can get away with, given the fact he still has the cigarette in his actual hand. “No?”

“Bucky,” Steve deadpans, unamused. “You _know_ —”

“Yeah, yeah, death sticks, I know, I know,” Bucky cuts him off, waving his free hand and snubbing out the light with the other. Shame, he just lit it. “Steve, I’ve been smoking since 1934!”

“I know, that’s the _point!_ ” Steve is in his avenging angel mode, there’s no arguing with him — not that that will stop Bucky from trying. “We didn’t know they were so bad back then, but now —”

“ _Oh my god_ ,” Bucky groans, throwing his head back and squeezing his eyes shut, “you are a walking PSA, I swear to god. I am one hundred and seven years old, I have regenerative healing superpowers, I will be _fine!_ ”

Steve opens his mouth to argue some more, but Sam gently kicks the back of his legs, knocking him off balance and distracting him.

“Hey, Steven Grant Rogers-Barnes,” he says flatly as Steve spins around to him. “James Buchanan Rogers-Barnes and I were having a conversation.”

Bucky rolls his eyes. They both still introduce themselves as Rogers and Barnes respectively, but they did legally change their names when they got married so they could have a shared surname. It’s weird and dumb being repeatedly addressed as such, though.

“Oh, shit,” Steve jumps, apologetic. “I’m so sorry! Please, continue. Do you want me to leave?”

Sam laughs as Bucky pinches the bridge of his nose at his dumbass of a spouse. “No, man, just sit down. Jesus.”

Steve complies, dropping to the ground and settling himself next to (and, partially, around) Bucky and intertwining their fingers before he looks back up at Sam and asks him what’s going on.

As Sam explains the situation to Steve, Bucky holds his hand tightly. This is going to be hard for him to hear, too. They all loved Nat so much, but Steve knew her the best, and the longest. She was, truly, his best friend. And before he met Sam and then got Bucky back, and in the five years he lived without them, Nat was pretty much the only thing keeping him afloat. If someone really is trying to impersonate her now — well, that person is _fucked_ as far as Bucky is concerned.

Natasha was so important to all three of them.

It’s true that Steve and Sam spent a lot more time with Natasha than Bucky ever got to, but while he was in Wakanda, when all of Team Cap would visit, Bucky’s friendship with Nat grew quickly and so easily. It was just _natural_. They had similar life experiences (even to the point of being trained as assassins by basically the same people), similar senses of humor, and the shared constant frustration of trying to protect Steve Rogers. Bucky could tell Nat things that no one else would even begin to be able to understand. He always felt safe with her.

And now she’s gone.

When Sam finishes relaying the whole story, Steve looks devastated.

“Why would anyone do that?” he breathes as Bucky releases his hand to wrap his arm around Steve’s shoulders instead. “Why would they want to make us think —?”

“We don’t know that’s what’s happening,” Bucky interrupts him carefully.

“Yeah,” Sam agrees, “They didn’t actually say who they were —”

“But the messaging program,” Steve argues, cutting Sam off. “Who else would know to use _that_ program?”

“Anyone trained by Hydra or Leviathan,” Bucky answers. “It could be one of Nat’s old friends from back then. She still has — _had_ a lot of contacts she didn’t talk about much.”

“Could be Yelena,” Sam provided.

Yelena Belova. Another victim of the Red Room, and the only “old friend” of Natasha’s that any of them have ever met, and even then it was only briefly. She helped them out once when Steve, Sam, and Natasha were chasing a small band of terrorists from Ukraine into Russia. She showed up for a mission briefing, barely said anything (and what she did say was in Russian so only Nat understood her), and then left. But they had walked into Russia and right into the terrorists’ camp without issue, and that was because of Yelena.

Steve nods reluctantly. “I suppose,” he says slowly. Bucky slips his hand into Steve’s hair and strokes his scalp soothingly with the tips of his vibranium fingers.

They sit like that in the twilight for a moment, quiet. The goats bleat softly from the other side of the yard. Talia stretches out all her limbs and settles.

“Hey,” Bucky says after a minute, uncomfortable with this level of sadness hovering around the people he loves most, “lets go inside, yeah? It’s getting dark and I’m getting cold. And hungry. Come on, Stevie, help me up.”

Luckily, that seems to do the trick, and the spell of mourning is broken for the time being. Steve jumps to his feet with Bucky’s request for help, reaching down to hoist him under the arms and lift him to his feet. Sam stands, too, picking Talia up to bring her inside with them (she’s not allowed outside without supervision lest she wander off and try to deplete the local bird population), and the four of them make their way back into the house.

Bucky makes his way, aching a little, to the couch, because if he stays standing for too long, his gunshot injuries start hurting like hell, and Sam closes up the back doors and windows and turns the music down while Steve goes to the fridge to start pulling out food for dinner. But then everything stops all at once because of a hard, angry knock on the door.

Steve pokes his head out of the kitchen to exchange a cautious look with Bucky, and Sam frowns and switches the music off entirely. Bucky shakes his head and shrugs at the way Steve’s eyebrows lift in a question, but when he turns to go open the door, Steve is already passing him, hand on the small of his back to reassure Bucky that he’s there.

Bucky leans on the back of the couch and Sam comes up to stand protectively next to him as Steve opens the door.

“Clint?”

A lanky blond man comes storming into the house, pushing past Steve and barking Sam’s name. It is, indeed, Clint Barton, Hawkeye himself. He lifts the phone in his hand and shines the screen towards Sam as he snaps, “You send out an SOS to all the current, former, and honorary Avengers in the galaxy and I have to hear about it from _Banner?!_ What the fuck, dude?!”

Sam stands stock still, eyes wide. He did not expect this.

Well. This is very awkward.

 

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The only change I'm making to MCU canon up to Endgame is I'm gently removing movie Clint from the entire story and quietly replacing him with comics Clint.
> 
> Come say hi on twitter! @emilymacagy


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